


What's in a Name?

by levi_cas_tho, maichan



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Canon-Typical Violence, Embedded Images, Fluff, Homelessness, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Recovery, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-04 05:07:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 85,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21192059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levi_cas_tho/pseuds/levi_cas_tho, https://archiveofourown.org/users/maichan/pseuds/maichan
Summary: Following the attack on the Triskelion, the Asset is left injured, confused, and without guidance. Directionless and with no superior to give it orders, it must establish its own protocols. It assigns itself a new mission: gather intel on everything and anything regarding Captain America and Hydra, stay under the radar, and survive. Simple.Except its not.⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑Featuring a confused and questioning Bucky Barnes who doesn’t know how to handle his newfound freedom, a pining Steve Rogers who doesn’t know how to handle feelings, and the journey of a punk and a jerk as together they rediscover themselves, each other, and what it means to be in love.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to my amazing beta [NurseDarry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NurseDarry/pseuds/NurseDarry) and my wonderful artist [maichan808](https://maichan808.tumblr.com) ! Please check out some of their other works.  
My own tumblr is [levicastho](https://levicastho.tumblr.com/)  
The title is inspired by Remain Nameless by Florence + the Machine.  
Hope you enjoy!

The Asset drops its mission onto the bank of the Potomac. It registers the fact that the mission is now breathing, albeit raggedly, and that the injuries the mission had received are likely to be nonfatal. The Asset marks this information as irrelevant. It had already failed; the state of its mission is no longer its concern.

Its options are now limited. It can return to Hydra, but between the failure of its mission and the state of ruin the organization is likely in, that seems to be a tactically unwise decision, at least for now. Maybe later on, once the chaos and confusion has died down and Hydra has had a chance to regroup, the Asset can return.

Another, deeply buried part of it has little regard for tactics; all it knows is that it doesn’t  _ want _ to return to Hydra, not now, not ever. That part of the Asset wants to stay with the mission and beg for forgiveness. That part of it wants to weep. That part of it wants to sink into the ground and never emerge.

That part of the Asset is ignored. 

_ (Assets do not  _ ** _want_ ** .)

The Asset needs to make a decision. The Asset isn’t allowed to make decisions, at least not outside of certain parameters. The Asset does not want to make a decision.

( _ Assets do not  _ ** _want_ ** _ . _ )

The Asset decides not to decide. Not yet, at least.

Time is of the essence. If the Asset remains on the bank, it will eventually be found and captured, be it by Hydra or some other force. It has to leave and get clear of the scene. From there it will further plan what needs to be done.

A large, loud part of the Asset does not want to leave its mission on the shore, alone and unprotected. That part of the Asset is ignored.

_ (Assets do not  _ ** _want_ ** .)

The Asset turns and strides away from the mission. The Asset does not look back.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑

The Asset has come to a decision. It has decided that it does not have enough intel in order to make a decision. Therefore, the Asset decides to gather intel that could help it make further decisions in the future.

People in the streets are screaming. Cars are piled up, which likely had crashed after the occupants had become distracted by the debris falling from the sky. Some are running away from the Triskelion, others run towards it. The chaos proves to be enough of a distraction that few notice the Asset, but those who do eye it strangely.

It occurs to the Asset that it needs to appear more inconspicuous.

Its black tactical gear is drenched in river water. Most of the blood from its injuries had been washed away, but new stains are appearing from the wounds that have not yet ceased leaking. Several of its weapons are exposed, and a glance in a passing storefront window reveals its hair to be in a state of complete disarray. The flesh arm had been dislocated and hangs loosely at the Asset’s side.

The Asset needs to blend in. It snags a hooded jacket from a bench, likely abandoned during the chaos, and slips a pair of sunglasses out of a passerby’s pocket. It ducks between two office buildings to discard its outer gear, leaving the undershirt, bulletproof vest, tactical pants, and combat boots on for now. This task proves to be almost impossible before the Asset realizes it needs to reset the flesh arm. After that, pulling off its soggy clothing and replacing it with the pullover proves to be much easier, albeit painful.

It is of no consequence. 

_ (Assets are  _ ** _unmoved by pain_ ** .)

Its hair is still wet and tangled, so the Asset pulls up the hood of the jacket to cover it. It ensures that all its various guns and knives are concealed from view and puts the hand that is metal into the hoodie’s pocket. The sunglasses are slipped onto its face. Soon it will need to acquire gloves and trousers, and possibly some other clothing, but for now this will have to do.

The Asset strides out of the alley. It is unsure how to approach its new mission. The Asset never had to gather intel itself before—or if it had, it doesn’t remember it. The handlers always provided it with a mission briefing and a file containing relevant information.

The Asset knows that there are a variety of sources of information available to the general public. News outlets, for example; which can take the form of paper, digital articles, or television broadcasting. However, the Asset doubts that any pertinent information will be available currently. Hydra’s collapse only just started, and at this point there will likely only be speculation about what exactly is going on. No, it’s best for the Asset to wait at least several hours before pursuing news sources.

The Internet is another valuable resource—at least, the Asset assumes it is, based on what it’s overheard from handlers and scientists. But the Asset has no idea how to utilize such a resource. It could try. It is a very fast learner. But it lacks a computer or other mobile device necessary. Stealing one may attract unwanted attention, and any purchases made would leave a paper trial.

Still, the Asset will likely need to access the Internet at some point. Perhaps…

The Asset shakes its head. All of this thinking is giving it a headache.

_ (Assets do not  _ ** _think_ ** .)

The Asset will worry about the Internet later.

Libraries are a reliable source of information. They are free, easy to use, and open to the public. The Asset thinks it might have had a mission that involved burning down a library once.

But that is irrelevant.

Overall, a library seems to be the best, if not only, option.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

The Asset chooses a library an hour’s walk away, far from the wreckage of the Triskelion. The journey is uncomfortable. Its tac gear is still damp, and the fabric drags harshly against its legs with every step, causing the skin to burn and chafe. The Asset ignores the sensation and keeps walking.

_(Assets do not _**_feel_** **_discomfort_**.)

The library it chooses is small, situated in a poorer area of the city. Still, the building is clean and well-kept, and it contains books relevant to the Asset’s search. The Asset hadn’t come in expecting to find anything up-to-date on Hydra—all of that information is likely classified—but it does manage to locate a section on Captain America. The Asset scoops up all the books that appear to be promising and hauls them over to a secluded table.

The books confirm that the Captain did in fact have a friend named James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes. However, this information does nothing to convince the Asset that the Captain was telling the truth about its identity. James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes is described in the book as a loyal, caring individual and an out-going ‘ladies man’. He’d had two sisters that he’d doted upon, a nurturing mother, and he’d been noted as being especially close to his family. He had been a skilled sniper in the Army, but he’d often argued with his Captain over orders. He had been the only Howling Commando to give his life in service to his country. All of the books seemed to agree that James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes had been an all-around good person.

The Asset is not a person.

It is a weapon, a machine, the Fist of Hydra. It is not a person at all, let alone a good one. Even if this crucial fact is overlooked, none of the other information lines up either. The Asset had been created in a lab in Russia. While it is currently stationed in America, it did not originate here. It did not have a mother; it had handlers. The Asset isn’t caring or loyal or outgoing, it just  _ is _ . It is whatever its handlers need it to be. And while it is true that the Asset is a skilled sniper, it would  _ never _ argue with a commanding officer.

_ (Assets do not  _ ** _disobey_ ** _ .) _

The Asset is perusing a book on Captain America’s influence on the war when a woman approaches.

She is lean, has dark skin, curly hair, and pushes a cart filled with books. Her name tag reads Angela, and the Asset can not discern any visible or concealed weapons on her person. Still, it tenses, ready to dispatch her at the first sign of a threat.

The woman gives it an impersonal smile as she passes, glancing down at the collection of books it has amassed. “Ah, you’re a big Captain America fan, huh?” Her smile turns more friendly and she leans in closer to the Asset. “I am, too. Have you seen the exhibit down at the Smithsonian? It’s pretty neat, they have his original uniform and everything,” she enthuses.

The Asset tilts its head. An exhibition might offer unique insight on the Captain and his past. It clears its throat, testing out its voice. “Thank you,” it says carefully, “That sounds promising.”

Angela nods, her expression softening as she takes in the Asset’s appearance. “Cool. Also, I’m sorry if this comes across as rude, but there’s a homeless shelter down the street, if you need it. And the library is a nice place to come in and escape the weather—we have books, obviously, but there’s computers open to the public as well. And the bathroom in the back is secluded enough that some folks use it to wash up.”

The Asset deems this information to be useful. It had not known libraries contained computers. It will also likely need to maintain some sense of hygiene in order to blend in with society. Then again, Angela had simply assumed that it is homeless. That could be a useful cover—the homeless are often ignored and overlooked. “Thank you,” it repeats as Angela resumes pushing her cart.

As the Asset begins putting its collection of books away, it works on formulating a new plan based on the intel it had just received. It will need to use one of the library computers to determine the location of the Smithsonian. If the museum is near the Asset’s current location, it may be able to get there before closing time. If not, the Asset will have to wait until it opens again tomorrow.

The Asset hopes it is near. The sooner it gathers the intel it needs, the sooner it can decide what to do and get past this nauseating sensation of uncertainty.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

It is not near. The Smithsonian is on the other side of the city. Further research shows that the museum will be closing in an hour, which will not give the Asset enough time to get there on foot.

It decides that it will head in that direction anyway, so that it can be there bright and early the next day. The wooden chair creaks as the Asset leans back in it, formulating a plan. Once a strategy has been developed, it quickly memorizes the route it will take utilizing the help of a digital map software on the computer.

That done, it logs off of the computer and goes off in search of Angela. The Asset finds her among one of the many rows of shelves, restocking the books from her cart. She looks at it in surprise when it clears its throat, then puts on a friendly smile. “Hi, again. Anything I can help you with?”

The Asset rubs the back of its neck, attempting to behave in a way that would fit the character of a man down on his luck. “Yes, ma’am. Do you happen to know anywhere around here where I might be able to get some clothes? I had more in my bag, but it was stolen…”

It trails off, projecting what it hopes will come across as uncertainty and shame, and Angela is quick to jump in. “Oh, yes! There’s a church two blocks down with supplies available for those in need. It’s called Lady of Saints—big old white building, you can’t miss it. Just speak to Father Mike and he’ll set you up real good. The next service doesn’t start until five, so if you head over now, you should make it before they get busy.”

She quickly rattles off some directions, and once she is done the Asset thanks her. Being polite is important, especially when it comes to women. That fact is ingrained in the Asset somehow, though it certainly hadn’t applied on the few missions it could remember. Perhaps old protocol?

The Asset shakes its head. It doesn’t matter.

It quickly locates the church Angela had spoken of. The Asset carefully scoped out the building beforehand, circling the block several times. It had no reason to believe that this might be a trap, but then again, it had no reason to believe it might  _ not _ be. Only once its careful inspection yields no reason for concern does the Asset approach. The building itself is slightly rundown, but the interior is bright and inviting. Sun shining through the stained-glass windows paints a mosaic of colors across the wooden pews. An image flashes through the Asset’s mind of a similar building, this one filled with people; the men wearing small caps and the women donning shawls over their heads, small children running about, a man in a suit and strange scarf preaching to the congregation. The Asset deems the image to be irrelevant to the mission, and brushes it aside.

The Asset pokes around the building until it finds a room containing what appears to be a priest. The Asset assumes this must be Father Mike. The man is deeply engrossed in a book, his lips moving as he reads, and the Asset hovers by the door uncertainly. Would it be rude to interrupt? The Asset does not want to risk angering the man by breaking his concentration. Doing so might make him less inclined to give the Asset the resources it needs. With this thought in mind, the Asset decides the best option is to wait until the man is done. It easily shifts into protocol, keeping perfectly still and quiet until acknowledged. The action is familiar—almost calming in the wake of all the uncertainty the Asset has experienced throughout the day.

The Asset remains in position for exactly nine minutes before being noticed. When the priest finally glances up and catches sight of it, he immediately startles. “Dear Lord!” he exclaims, dropping the book to clutch at his chest.

The Asset is alarmed by the reaction. Perhaps he has miscalculated in his approach. Scaring the man had not been the impression the Asset is intending to make.

Before the Asset can formulate a plan to remedy the situation, the man begins to stand. “How long have you been—you know what, never mind.” He offers the Asset a friendly smile, waving a hand dismissively. “Sorry about that, you just gave me a bit of a scare there, son.” The Asset begins to apologize, but the man shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. I’m Father Mike. What can I do for you?”

The Asset shifts uncertainly, still worried that the man may be angry with it. “I was told you might be able to help me? My bag was stolen, and it had all my clothing and money in it.”

Father Mike accepts the lie easily, his expression taking on a more compassionate note. “I’m sorry to hear that. You came to the right place, though. We’re always willing to help those who need it—more than willing, even.” 

As he speaks, he leaves the room, gesturing for the Asset to follow. The Asset diligently does so, and is led to a small storage room. The priest grabs one of the many backpacks piled onto the shelves and hands it to the Asset. 

“That there contains some hygiene products, a rain poncho, sunscreen, and other stuff you may be in need of. If there’s something in there you aren’t gonna use, do me a favor and pass it along to someone else in need. There’s also a list of shelters, as well as our contact information.”

He then pulls down a cardboard box, “ _ large men’s _ ” scrawled across the side. “Feel free to dig around until you find something you like. Take as much as you need. Now, I have to get back to preparing for mass, but I’ll be in my office if you have any questions. You can stay for mass, if you’d like. If not, well, I wish you luck.”

The Asset thanks him, but the man only smiles and shakes his head. “Like I said, we’re happy to help,” he demurs.

Once the man is gone, the Asset turns its attention to the clothing. It quickly picks out the most practical items—a pack of socks and briefs, a pair of jeans, two grey shirts, and a pair of gloves. It hesitates when it reaches the soft red zip-up fleece jacket.

It is a comfort item. The Asset has no need for another jacket, and the flimsy material would offer little protection from the elements. Not to mention the color—the bright red is certain to draw attention. It is impractical in every way. And yet… the Asset likes it.

_ (Assets do not have  _ ** _likes_ ** _ .) _

It pauses, rooted to the spot in indecision, until it finally breaks and shoves the jacket into the bottom of its bag, along with the rest of the clothing.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

The Asset opts to take a zig-zag route along its journey to the Smithsonian, hoping to throw off any potential tails. It ducks and weaves down different streets and between buildings as it goes, keeping up an unpredictable pattern. It had changed into its new clothes soon after leaving the church, and had spent twenty minutes attempting to tame its hair using the comb it had found in the backpack before giving up. If it is pretending to be homeless, it supposes the state of its hair doesn’t really matter, anyway.

Then again, is the Asset really just  _ pretending? _ Without Hydra, the Asset has no home. Therefore, technically, the Asset really is homeless, isn’t it?

The thought is disconcerting.

Along the way, the Asset stops by various cafes and bars—anywhere with a television. By now the news outlets are finally reporting some concrete news on today’s disaster, and most local businesses are playing the broadcasts, eager for information. Some patrons watch the footage keenly, expressions of concern on their faces, while others simply carry on about their business, used to calamities that come with living in a world full of superheroes. The Asset pretends to act somewhere in between—curious, but not overly worried about the happenings.

The Asset is only able to stay in each establishment for a limited period of time. It seems that most staff members do not take kindly to a homeless man loitering on their property. This makes it difficult for the Asset to watch full segments of the broadcasts, but it is able to glean some information from what it sees.

As the Asset ducks out of yet another bar, it mentally compiles a list of what it has learned, and what the ramifications are.

One: Pierce is dead. The Asset, used to the coming and going of handlers, feels no remorse. This does, however, leave Hydra without a leader, albeit temporarily.

Two: Captain America is alive. He had reportedly been airlifted to a classified location, presumably to receive treatment. No news yet on the extent of his injuries. The Asset is not sure why it feels relief upon learning this information.

Three: The public knows little about the Winter Soldier, and reporters speculate about its identity, its origin, its whereabouts. Reports have come in from people claiming to have seen a man with a metal arm walking away from the Triskelion, but there is no confirmation of its survival as of yet. The Asset hopes its change in attire will be enough to prevent people from connecting it to the blurry image of a man shown on the screens.

Four: And, perhaps most importantly-- the data dump. An anonymous source has released countless classified files to the public. A great deal of this information is related to Hydra, meaning that by now any active members were likely in hiding, in custody, or dead.

If the Asset had feelings, it would feel disappointed. The intel it has gathered only succeeds in raising more questions. At least now the Asset knows that it needs to stay low, and that attempting to contact Hydra would be pointless at the moment.

The Asset decides to carry on with its plan. It is within blocks of the Smithsonian anyway, there is no reason to turn back now.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

Infiltrating the Smithsonian is easier than the Asset had expected. It had thoroughly scoped out the building the night before, and had then spent thirty minutes after the doors had opened for the day observing the comings and goings of the visitors. There is no entrance fee, so once the Asset ensures the situation is safe, it’s able to simply walk right in — though it does have to sneak past the metal detectors.

The Asset takes its time prowling the displays, soaking in all the information it can. It has already learned a lot from the reading it had done yesterday, but the visuals are helpful. When it reaches the memorial display for James Buchanan Barnes, it pauses. An image of the man stares back at it.

The Asset stares at the image, then shifts the focus of its eyes to instead take in its own reflection on the shiny black surface. It repeats the process several times, cataloguing key details and features. The resemblance  _ is _ uncanny. The Asset’s face is remarkably similar to that of James Buchanan Barnes, but at the same time, also remarkably different. James Buchanan Barnes’ face holds life. There are crinkles around his eyes that hold a sort of vibrance. There is a hint of a smile tugging on soft lips. There is color, visible even in black and white, lingering underneath smooth cheeks. There is a sense of life within the man.

The Asset, in comparison, looks dead.

And why wouldn’t it? The Asset isn’t truly a living thing, not really. It’s a machine. Yes, it bleeds and breathes and bruises, but it is not  _ human, _ it is not  _ alive.  _ It just  _ is. _

It tears its eyes away from its reflection, instead focusing on the writing. The focus seems to be more on this man’s friendship with Captain America than on the man himself. Again, none of the information listed is new, so the Asset turns its attention back to the rest of the room.

It can’t help but notice the fact that the suit the Captain is wearing in the pictures matches what the Captain had been wearing on the Helicarrier, and that the display meant to hold the original suit is missing the mannequin, a small sign in its place apologizing for the inconvenience. Had the Captain taken the suit? Why? Surely there are other, better-made suits available to him.

The Asset shakes its head. It rarely ever understands the motivation behind humans’ actions.

It isn’t long after that the Asset finds the small section dedicated to the Captain’s life before the war. A screen shows the drastic difference in size between the Captain before and after the serum, and next to it is a picture from his recruitment file, his face small but his expression defiant, a cut on his lower lip, blond hair flopping into his eyes. The Asset stares at the image, captivated, and is struck by a sharp throbbing in its head. Outwardly, the Asset shows no sign of the pain other than a small wince. It brushes the occurrence off as the lingering aftermath from the fight the previous day, and shifts its attention to the rest of the display.

The text on the walls talks about the Captain’s early life; the struggle of growing up during the Depression, the constant scuffles and fights, the pain of losing his mother at a young age. There is a list chronicling the many health issues that Captain had endured before the serum, emphasizing that it was a miracle that the man had ever survived twenty years, let alone seventy. Various podiums hold belongings that had reportedly belonged to the Captain. A small pair of shoes, worn down with holes in the bottom. A leather satchel, cracked and faded in places, but obviously well cared for. A beat-up sketchbook, open to show a lifelike charcoal rendition of a collection of vases.

As the Asset looks at the drawing, an image flashes before its eyes. A bathtub with a piece of plywood over it, holding that same collection of vases, a small man with black smudges on his fingers and face perched in a chair, studiously recreating each and every detail.

The Asset blinks, startled, but before it can dwell on the implications the throbbing pain in its head returns.

And the pain keeps returning. The longer the Asset lingers in the building, taking in the displays and information, the worse and more frequent the pain becomes.

The worst of it comes while the Asset is watching a film reel, the screen replaying a clip of the Captain and James Buchanan Barnes leaning against each other, laughing, huge smiles stretched across their faces. This time the pain is so intense that the Asset bends over for a moment, clutching its head as nausea rushes through its body.

It regains control of itself quickly, straightening as its eyes scan the room for threats. It spots none. No one is even looking its way.

Dread begins to swell in the Asset’s stomach. There is no reason for its body to be reacting this way. Any head injury it had sustained the previous day should be healed by now, and the Asset would have noticed it before. Had it been poisoned? Impossible—it hadn’t consumed anything since it had been deployed on its doomed mission. Unless, of course, someone is releasing a toxin into the air…

The Asset’s shoulders tense. It makes its way outside as quickly as it dares without raising attention, then immediately ducks into a nearby alleyway. It scales the wall and moves swiftly and silently, jumping from rooftop to rooftop until it feels it’s an adequate distance away, then takes back to the streets, making unpredictable turns as it goes, continually checking for pursuers.

It gets over a mile away before it finally collapses against the wall next to a dumpster, its breaths coming in fast and ragged with panic. It is then that it suddenly realizes how foolish it is being, how stupid. There are no pursuers. There had never been a threat in the first place. The Asset had been in a building full of people, if the air had been poisoned then everyone around it would have been affected as well. To overlook such a key detail was inexcusable.

It is possible the Asset is malfunctioning.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

The Asset is definitely experiencing some type of malfunction.

Early on in the week the Asset had experienced other issues: rapid heartbeat, stomach cramps, nausea, fatigue. It had been worried at first, but about four days ago it had realized that it should try drinking something. Previously, the Asset had only been allowed water on special, long-term solo missions—typically it received all the fluid it needed intravenously. But considering its lack of access to those, drinking water would have to suffice.

And it does. Almost all of its symptoms have either lessened significantly or disappeared entirely. They are not the reason the Asset is currently concerned.

It is the headaches.

It had been an entire week since the fight on the Helicarrier, and the headaches show no sign of diminishing, no matter how much water the Asset drinks. If anything, they are becoming more frequent. The severity and timing vary, but the Asset notices they only seem to occur when it is researching the Captain.

The Asset brushes this off as a coincidence. Yes, it is true that Hydra may have implanted a code that will invoke pain in response to the Asset learning about the man. Similar coding had been enforced in the past to prevent the Asset from considering defiance. But there is no reason the Asset can think of for them to have done so. Why prevent it from gaining intel on one of its targets? To do so seems counterproductive.

No, the pain must be a result of something else. A more likely explanation is that the pain is wired to occur when the Asset has been away from Hydra for too long, as is the case currently, in order to encourage the Asset to return. But the Asset  _ can’t  _ return, not now, not with Hydra in shambles. Granted, it hasn’t actually put much effort, or even thought, into the possibility of returning, but still… Something in the Asset just knows that it can’t go back. Not yet.

Besides, it has a mission to complete.

The Asset has spent the previous days honing its intel gathering skills. It had returned to the Smithsonian once more, but the information provided there is lacking, and the Asset instead finds itself using a more broad—albeit less reliable—resource: the Internet.

The Internet contains more data than the Asset could ever hope to memorize, and proves to be a valuable tool when it comes to searching specifics. It has taken the Asset several hours to become adept at navigating such a resource, but it is remarkably easier than it had feared. The fact it is easily accessed via most public libraries means the Asset has no problems finding a way to use it. That anyone can use such a tool for free is astounding to the Asset, but it is certainly to its benefit.

The Asset spends countless hours hunched in front of computer screens, jotting down any pertinent information in the notepad that it has found included in its bag.

Still, there is only so much that can be learned through reading. The Smithsonian had at least offered visuals, something concrete rather than just abstract words, but the Asset has learned all it can from there. The Asset doubts there is another such museum with up-to-date information on Hydra—not when the public has only just rediscovered its existence. The closest the Asset can hope to get to that is by visiting Hydra bases, but doing so would be too large a risk. All the bases it can locate online are likely to be monitored by government forces, and the Asset can’t be certain the few bases it knows from memory haven’t been sieged as well. Not to mention the fact that the most established bases are overseas, and the Asset currently has no means of traveling there.

The Asset is at an impasse, unsure where to go next, when it spots the headline:  _ Captain America Released from Hospital; Spotted Jogging in Brooklyn Bridge Park.  _ It had been posted three hours ago.

The Asset clicks on the link.

The article includes a blurry image, obviously taken by a sharp-eyed fan, of Captain Rogers decked out in running gear mid-jog. Another shows him guzzling from a water bottle. The images don’t hold much substance, but they are enough to serve as proof that the Captain has recovered and is currently in Brooklyn.

Further investigation reveals no further sightings as of yet, but more are sure to come with the Captain being out and about. Considering the public’s current interest in all things relating to the Triskelion attack, it is unlikely that the Captain will be able to go anywhere for the next week or so without being photographed.

The Asset chews on its lower lip, an idea forming in its mind. If it wants solid intel on the Captain, what better way to gain it than straight from the source?

Not wanting to waste even a minute, the Asset turns off the computer and gets to its feet, scooping up its backpack before exiting the library for the last time.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter warnings

Sometimes, the Asset wonders why it is bothering to gather intel on the Captain at all. The Asset has no connection to the man other than the fact that it had once been assigned to kill him. Its time would be better spent focused on Hydra or SHIELD, on planning its next steps or finding a way to get overseas.

But, the Asset justifies to itself, it has time. It is best to hold off on that type of investigation until all the fuss from the Helicarrier incident has died down. And international travel at such a time is out of the question, considering the fact that every government agency in the world is currently hunting for the Asset. There is no reason to rush.

Besides, the Asset has already included research on the Captain as part of its mission from the beginning, and it is not built to question orders—not even when those orders come from itself.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

Walking to Brooklyn takes longer than the Asset expects. When planning its route, it had failed to take into account that its body occasionally requires rest in order to function properly. Because of this oversight, the Asset is only thirty-two miles and eleven hours into its journey when its body collapses. It is then forced to duck under an overpass and allow its body to recover, which takes an additional eight hours.

From then on, the Asset is much more careful about considering its body’s limitations. It decides that for the rest of the journey it will take a two-hour break every twelve hours, with thirty-minute breaks allowed in between as needed. This adds an entire day to its expedition, but there is no way around it. The Asset cannot risk its body breaking down, not when it can’t rely on the Hydra scientists to fix it. Besides, it needs to be fully functional in case of an attack.

Sleeping is…strange. The Asset rarely, if ever, had to sleep while with Hydra. It had always been either placed into cryo or drugged when rest was needed. The majority of its breaks are spent lying perfectly still, expending as little energy as possible but not actually asleep. The few times its body is able to slip into unconsciousness, the Asset wakes feeling off-kilter, vague memories of images flashing through its mind. On several occasions it wakes abruptly, heart racing, eyes scanning for an unknown threat. In these instances, the Asset has no choice but to get up and keep moving, its body too restless to remain still.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

When the Asset steps foot in Brooklyn, bright and early on a Tuesday morning, the first thing it does is go to a library.

In the five days it has taken for the Asset to arrive in New York, the Captain had been spotted several more times. The Asset is able to use the various sightings and narrow down the Captain’s approximate location to roughly a six block radius in DUMBO. The Asset is also able to piece together one part of the Captain’s routine: everyday at dawn, the Captain runs a path through Brooklyn Bridge Park. This means that if the Asset monitors that area during those specific hours it should be able to get a visual on the Captain.

This also means that the Asset won’t be able to begin its surveillance until tomorrow, seeing as there hasn’t yet been enough sightings to discern the rest of the Captain’s routine.

The Asset is slightly disappointed by this revelation, but reminds itself that there is no reason to rush. This, after all, is not a mission with a time limit.

In the meantime, the Asset decides it can scope out the area it suspects the Captain to be in. Being familiar with its surroundings is key—especially if the Asset at some point needs to make a quick escape.

Walking through the streets of DUMBO, the Asset begins to feel unsettled. The buildings, the streets, they all look both eerily familiar and completely foreign. The Asset cannot recall having ever been sent on a mission here, but that doesn’t mean anything—the Asset has no memory of most of its missions. To make matters worse, the headaches seem to be intensifying. They had decreased significantly on the journey here, and the Asset had hoped them gone. Regardless, the Asset ignores the feeling and focuses on establishing a mental map of the area.

It seems to be a wealthier area—nothing near the affluence of Manhattan, but still clearly well-off. There is no shortage of coffee shops lining the streets, which are lively but not crowded. People, if they notice the Asset at all, tend to steer clear of it and eye it with distaste or pity. The Asset feels uncomfortable under their scrutiny. The closer the Asset gets to the bridge the more tourists it encounters, so it makes a mental note to avoid the area. The last thing it wants is to be caught because someone recognizes it in the background of a social media post.

Eventually the Asset reaches the more rundown part of town. It blends in far more easily here, in the type of place where graffiti lines the walls and people tend to avoid each other’s gazes.

The Asset continues its exploration well into the evening, until it finally finds a secluded park bench it can pass the rest of the night on. It has no intention of attempting to sleep in such an exposed spot, but just the chance to get off its feet was relief enough.

All of that walking has caused the Asset to develop painful blisters on the soles of its feet, and it has already managed to wear holes into two pairs of its socks. It notes that combat boots are not ideal for trekking long distances.

Or, the Asset muses, perhaps it was simply growing soft. It has never paid mind to such inconveniences as pain or discomfort before. The thought is disquieting. The Asset needs to be at peak condition if it expects to survive on its own, without Hydra looking after it. It will have to maintain its training and not allow for such distractions in the future.

But for now—for now, the Asset is tired, and it is sore, and it is weary. It can rest. Just for a moment.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

The Asset arrives in Brooklyn Bridge Park well before the sun has even risen. It had scoped out the area yesterday, and quickly relocates the tree it had picked out. With a quick glance to ensure there is no one around, the Asset scales the trunk, climbing high into the leaves before finding a branch strong enough to support its weight. The foliage is dense, thick enough that it is unlikely anyone will glance up and spot the Asset without careful scrutiny. All the Asset has to do now is find a gap through which it has a clear view of the path, settle in, and wait.

There is something almost soothing about staying stock still in a tree. It is something the Asset had done countless times on sniper missions, lying in wait for the perfect shot. The only difference now is that the Asset doesn’t have a rifle to aim.

It isn’t long after the sun starts to peek out over the horizon that the joggers begin to emerge. First a girl in a bright pink crop top goes past, then an elderly couple out on a stroll with their dog, and then, finally, a well-built blond man in a too-tight t-shirt.

The Asset keeps its eyes locked on the Captain until he rounds the curve of the trail. Once the man is completely out of sight, it checks to ensure no one is nearby before dropping out of the tree and onto the path. From there, it is easy to tail the Captain, who had apparently been near the end of his run anyways.

The Asset watches from a safe distance as the Captain goes about his day: a quick breakfast in a cozy diner, dropping by the VA, picking up groceries from a bodega. The bustling streets make it easy for the Asset to blend in, but it still takes the precaution of ensuring it remains out of the Captain’s line of sight. And so, the Asset spends its hours watching from afar until finally the Captain bounds up the steps to a modest apartment building and disappears from view.

It is only midafternoon, so there is a chance the Captain may reemerge before the day’s end to complete some other task, but the Asset decides not to linger. It doesn’t want to risk drawing attention to itself by loitering, and it has already completed its goal for the day. It now knows where the Captain lives, and has gotten a glimpse into the man’s daily life. Tomorrow, the Asset will repeat the process, and maybe try to discern exactly which floor the Captain lives on and whether or not the man has a consistent routine. But for today, it feels it can call its accomplishments a success.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

The next few days pass in a similar fashion. The Captain, it seems, does not live a very exciting life—at least, not when he isn’t saving the world. His days are spent in a monotonous pattern—run, eat, return home, repeat—with the occasional addition of shopping or stopping by the VA. Once, the Captain, sitting on a park bench facing the water, pulls out a sketchbook, only to half-heartedly scribble a few lines before sighing in frustration and returning it to his satchel. This, for some reason, causes a strange twinging sensation in the Asset’s chest.

On the fourth day of observation, the Asset decides to take the next step in its intel gathering. It waits until nightfall, long after the Captain has retired for the day, before returning to the apartment complex.

The complex the Captain lives in is up against an alleyway on one side. Across from it is an office building, temporarily abandoned while under construction. The Asset easily breaks into the building and climbs the stairs up to the top floor, positioning itself in front of a window facing the complex.

Based on what the Asset has observed, the construction workers do not work on weekends. This means that the Asset should be able to remain here overnight undisturbed. With the view it has, the Asset can clearly see the windows of all the apartments on the west side of the complex. Almost all of the windows are currently dark, but in the early hours of the following day, the occupants will rise and so will the sun, hopefully allowing the Asset to see into the rooms.

This plan involves plenty of risk with little chance of reward, but it is the best the Asset can come up with. The truth is, the Asset has no idea if this will work; there are so many contingencies unaccounted for. There is a chance someone looking closely enough could spot the Asset and call the authorities. The construction crew may decide to appear after all. The Captain may have blinds up to protect himself from view. Actually, there is a high probability that the Captain doesn’t even live on the west side of the building at all.

But the Asset has to try. Knowing exactly where the Captain lives is crucial, even if the Asset can’t fully explain why.

And so it sits in the dark, empty room, crouched in front of the window and partially blocked from view by a stack of drywall. The hours drag by slowly, with little to no signs of activity. Only one room still has the lights on at this hour; the Asset can see a young man with curly brown hair hunched in front of a computer screen, typing furiously. The Asset ignores him for the most part—it has no interest in anyone who isn’t the Captain—but even the young man eventually dims the lights and (presumably) retires for the night.

Then, one at a time, lights begin to flick on, bright against the pre-dawn glow. The first belongs to a mother, who walks by the window soon after with a small baby clutched to her chest. The Asset mentally rules out that apartment, along with the ones containing a harried looking business man, a father with a wailing toddler, and a lady with nine cats (so far as it’s been able to count). The Asset is just beginning to give up on this side of the building, certain that the Captain would be up and about by now, when it spots a pair of broad shoulders passing by the window that has just lit up on the fifth floor.

The man is only in sight for a split second, but the Asset has little doubt it is the Captain—it has yet to see another set of shoulders so wide.

Just to be certain, the Asset quickly sneaks out of the office building and into the street. It watches the doors to the apartment building intently, and sure enough, not five minutes later the Captain emerges dressed in the same blue shirt the Asset had seen through the window.

A gust of air escapes the Asset’s lungs as he watches the Captain head in the direction of the park. Against all odds, its plan had actually worked. Not only does the Asset know exactly which apartment the Captain lives in, it also knows an easy means of accessing a room, should the need arise. The Captain’s window is positioned directly in front of a fire escape, and his apartment also has a small balcony.

Not that the Asset has any reason to enter the Captain’s apartment. Doing so would be far too risky—that Asset has no idea what security measures the Captain might have in place. And yes, exploring the apartment might offer the Asset unique insight into the Captain’s life, but for now, the Asset is content with surveillance.

In fact, if the Asset allows itself to think on the topic, it is almost _ too _ content with surveillance. For reasons it can’t identify, it almost _ enjoys _ watching the Captain. Each time the Captain is in its sights it is filled with a sense of peace, almost relief, among other emotions.

The Asset tells itself that the reasoning behind these feelings is simple—the Captain is a formidable enemy, the only person the Asset has ever encountered who can match its strength in a fight. Of course it makes sense that observing the Captain would put the Asset at ease.

The Asset is lying to itself.

(_ Assets do not _ ** _lie_ ** _ .) _

But the Asset won’t—can’t—admit the truth. Not yet, not even to itself. Because the implications of that, the mere insinuation that the Asset might somehow _ care _ about the Captain—

It doesn’t make sense. Assets are not built to care for anything, not even their own lives. And to care for the Captain of all people…

It wouldn’t end well for anyone involved. One day, the Asset will return to Hydra. And once it does, it is extremely likely that it will once again be assigned the Captain as a target. And this time, this time the Asset will know better, will be trained better, and this time it will not fail in its mission. It will kill the Captain and return to base and all will be right with the world again.

The Asset pushes down the rising nausea in its stomach and shakes its head, forcing itself to focus on the present. None of that matters. Not right now. For now, all the Asset can do is focus on the mission.

The mission is all that matters.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

The Asset sits on a bench, pretending to read a book it had fished out of a dumpster earlier in the week. In truth, most of the words are completely illegible from water stains and missing pages. But it makes for a good cover, and the Asset can raise it to cover its face in a pinch should the Captain happen to glance its way.

Currently, the Captain is slouched at an outdoor table at one of his more frequently visited bistros. The afternoon sun is bright and burning, but the Captain pays no mind to the heat, more focused on morosely pushing food back and forth on his plate. The Asset has yet to see the man take a bite.

A furrow forms between the Asset’s brows. The Captain had been behaving strangely all day. On his run he had pushed himself even harder than usual, and he had skipped breakfast altogether in favor of walking through the city, stopping at certain points to gaze at random buildings with a strange expression on his face. The Asset had been relieved when the Captain had opted to get lunch rather than return to the apartment, where the Asset wouldn’t be able to keep a visual on him. But considering how distressed the Captain is acting, the Asset wonders if perhaps he would be happier in the privacy of his own home.

The Asset is watching the Captain carefully, as though hoping the reason for the man’s strange behavior will suddenly appear, and is therefore able to witness the moment the Captain’s phone rings.

The change in demeanor is instantaneous. The Captain’s back straightens as he grabs for the phone and answers the call, an expression of hope and anticipation gracing his face. Apparently, the enthusiasm is in vain. Whatever the caller says in return has the Captain’s shoulders slumping in defeat. The same dejected expression from before returns in full force, and the Asset has a strange, fleeting thought that the man resembles a kicked puppy.

The Asset strains its ears, hoping to catch a fragment of the conversation, but even its super hearing can’t overpower the hubbub of New York.

The Captain nods along to what is being said over the line, running a hand through his hair and then down his face. All of his responses are brief, and after what can’t be more than a minute, he hangs up the phone and returns it to his jacket pocket.

The Asset watches as the Captain flags down a waitress to pay for his uneaten meal, then stands and disappears into the shop. He exits the front door a moment later, and the Asset follows him as he strides down the street.

The Captain pulls out his phone again and taps in a number, and this time the Asset decides to risk moving closer to hear what is being said.

“Hey, Sam,” the Captain greets. “No, everything’s fine. Just letting you know that Nat called, and I gotta head out on a mission tonight. Some Hydra base in Russia.”

The Asset can make out the sound of a tinny voice replying through the phone, but the words are indecipherable from this distance. The Asset debates moving even closer, but quickly discards the idea as being far too risky. It will just have to make inferences based on the Captain’s replies.

“No, nothing yet. I mean, she called last night with a lead, some rumor of a guy in Romania with a metal arm, but I guess it was a dead end. No, I know. I had just hoped that maybe…” the Captain pauses, listening, then let out a gusty sigh. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. If anyone can find him, it’s Nat.”

The Asset tenses. So the Captain is searching for it. It makes sense, of course; the Captain probably considers the capture of the Asset to be a matter of national security. The Asset will have to remain vigilant, and ensure it remains under the radar.

The Asset listens to the Captain say his goodbyes, promising to call as soon as he is back in New York. Briefly, the Asset considers attempting to follow the Captain on the mission. If it could sneak onto the jet, it will have solved its problem of getting overseas—it could simply sneak off and commence the next part of its intelligence gathering.

But the Asset knows any attempt to do so would come with too much risk, especially with the knowledge that the Captain is actively seeking it out. Besides, though the Asset is loath to admit it, it isn’t quite ready to give up on its obsession with the Captain. Not yet.

And so, later that night, the Asset watches from afar as the Captain zips away from his apartment complex on the back of a sleek motorcycle, his signature shield strapped to his back, and reminds itself that it cannot follow, no matter how much it longs to.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

The next day is strange. In the morning, the Asset had almost begun to walk to intercept the Captain at his apartment before it remembers that he was gone. The Asset had grown accustomed to tailing the Captain, and without him, the Asset is left somewhat directionless. It had tried to conduct more research at the library, but even after all these weeks, there had been few discoveries made regarding Hydra.

To make matters worse, the Asset’s body is malfunctioning. Again.

It had first begun to notice the signs weeks ago, but it had done its best to stick to training protocol and ignore the discomfort. It was beginning to think that that decision might have been a mistake.

The symptoms have only grown more persistent. What had started as mild discomfort in the stomach and some dizziness had turned into sharp abdominal pains, lightheadedness, weakness, and growing fatigue. Twice yesterday, the Asset had needed to stop and bend over in pain while tailing the Captain. And each time it stands or moves too quickly black spots dance in its vision.

It is concerning, to say the least.

The Asset has been making sure to monitor its fluid intake, filling up the water bottle countless times at water fountains or sinks in public restrooms. It has noticed that it seems to require more water with the more energy it burns through, and had adjusted accordingly. But these symptoms won’t go away no matter how much water the Asset drinks, or how much rest it gets. Cold water helps alleviate the pain a little, but only for a few minutes.

Before now, it had never realized how much effort went into maintaining its body’s ability to function. No wonder it had required a team of specialized scientists.

With the Captain gone and the mission on pause, the Asset decides to devote its time to attempting to solve its body’s latest bout of issues.

The Asset spends the whole day at the library, searching its symptoms and attempting to determine the cause, but doing so is harder than it seems. Listing all of its symptoms in the search bar gets it nowhere, and while it can search each symptom individually, there are too many potential causes for each one.

Through its digging, it eventually finds a lead that looks promising—a symptom checker. The questions are a bit confusing. The Asset is unsure of its exact age, or if age is even something that applies to it, but it knows it was created in a Russian lab circa 1945. Based on that, the Asset enters that it is seventy-one years old. It diligently lists all of its symptoms into the box, then clicks _ Enter _.

The results, once they finally load, are not promising. According to the website, the most likely cause is cholecystitis, and the Asset should look into getting its gallbladder removed immediately. Other potential causes are colon cancer and influenza, both of which the Asset is immune to.

The Asset reluctantly concludes that perhaps this tool is meant to be used on humans, not machines.

It leaves the library at closing time feeling frustrated and tired, and decides that more research can wait until tomorrow.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

But the next day harbors no answers, nor does the day after that. On the fourth day the Asset has just about given up on fixing its body when it passes a hotdog cart. The instant the savory smell wafting through the air reaches the Asset’s nose, its stomach growls.

The Asset stops in the middle of the street. Deliberates.

It needs water. It needs rest. Wouldn’t it make sense for it to need food as well?

Like with the water and rest, food is never something the Asset received while under Hydra’s control. Its nutrition had been maintained through intravenous drip, feeding tubes, and, occasionally, specially formulated shakes. Now, in the absence of those, of course the Asset would need its nutritional needs to be filled through other means.

The Asset approaches the cart—not stepping up to it, just observing for now. It watches as a young lady balancing a toddler on her hip points out certain toppings, the vendor piling them on efficiently until the woman is satisfied. The vendor gives the woman the hotdog, and in exchange she passes over some cash.

As she leaves, the vendor—who can’t be more than nineteen—glances up and notices the Asset. “Hotdogs are two dollars,” he supplies helpfully, voice slightly accented, “and pretzels are one.”

The Asset frowns, but then remembers that it should be respectful. “Thank you,” it offers, turning to leave, its mind already churning out ideas on how it might acquire the necessary funds. It doesn’t get more than three feet away before the boy calls out to him.

“Wait!”

The Asset turns back, head tilted.

“I—um, are you homeless?” the boy asks, wringing his hands awkwardly. The Asset nods. “Um, you can have a hotdog, if you’re hungry. For free. Just—don’t tell my papa if you come back. He’ll be angry with me. Alright?”

The Asset registers a strange feeling in its chest. It absently wonders if this is another symptom, but it doesn’t think symptoms are supposed to be…pleasant. “Alright,” it replies softly, voice scratchy from disuse. “Thank you.”

The boy shakes his head, curls flopping with the action. “Don’t worry about it. My name is Juan, by the way. You want any toppings?”

The Asset eyes the line of condiments with uncertainty. “Um, maybe the relish?”

“Good choice,” Juan replies, and the Asset relaxes a bit. Juan makes quick work of assembling the hot dog, and hands it to the Asset with a genuine smile. “Stay safe,” he says, still somewhat awkward, and the Assets feels its lips twitching up in response.

“I’ll try. And thanks again.”

The Asset eats the hot dog slowly, savoring every bite. The flavors burst across its tongue, and the Asset wonders why it hadn’t tried this sooner, already planning on how it will acquire more food.

The Asset does wonder whether or not this would actually help its symptoms, but it supposes time will tell. For now, it is content to just enjoy the taste.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

The Asset gets to enjoy the taste for all of thirty minutes, before it promptly vomits up all of the contents of its stomach. The Asset groans as it clutches the trash can, distantly aware of passersby eyeing it with disgust. Once the final wave of nausea is passed, the Asset stumbles into an alley and slides down against the wall, sweat beading its skin.

Perhaps the Asset’s body simply isn’t built to process human food. The thought is saddening. The Asset remembers how much enjoyment it had gotten from the hot dog earlier, but then, perhaps that is part of the issue.

_ (Assets are not meant to _ ** _enjoy_ ** _ .) _

Either way, it is back to square one. It still has no leads on abating its symptoms—if anything, eating had only made its symptoms _ worse _.

The Asset resigns itself to the fact that it will have to return to the library yet again the next day to conduct more research.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

The Asset does not return to the library the next day. Instead, when it goes to do its daily morning ritual of lurking near the Captain’s apartment to check for his return, it is surprised to see that familiar broad set of shoulders stride out the door.

The Asset follows instantly, scanning the Captain’s body for any signs of damage. The Captain is walking with a slight limp, but other than that seems unharmed.

As the Asset watches the Captain stop for breakfast after his run, it takes a moment to reflect. The Asset’s body had rejected human food, but that didn’t mean that the Asset had been wrong in assuming it might be in need of nutrition. But if nutrition truly is the root of the problem, there is nothing the Asset can do. It has no idea what it had been given for sustenance in the past, and no way to replicate the formula even if it did know it. The only solution the Asset can think of is to return to Hydra.

No, for now the Asset will just have work past the discomfort. It is still functional, for now. With time, the Asset might be able to come up with another way to fix itself, but until then, it has a mission. That is enough.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

The Asset sits with its back against a brick wall, a Styrofoam cup at its side. After the hotdog incident, it had occurred to the Asset that it might be wise to have some money, just in case. The Asset had observed other homeless people collecting funds this way, and while stealing may be easier, this comes with less risk. Besides, it also works as an excellent cover—passersby, even those who drop spare change into its cup, tend to avoid looking at it. The Asset is essentially invisible.

Today has been a good day for the Captain, as had the previous ones. Ever since he had returned from his mission, the Captain has seemed slightly more relaxed. The Asset assumes the outing had offered the Captain a chance to burn off some of the tense energy he always seems to carry. Currently the Asset is situated within sight of the VA, into which the Captain had disappeared an hour ago. Next, the Asset assumes the Captain will either stop for dinner or head home for the day.

The Asset is busy absentmindedly counting the money it had collected so far, trying to ignore the gnawing pain in its stomach, so maybe that’s why it doesn’t notice the Captain approaching. Or maybe it doesn’t notice because the Captain has finished his visit much earlier than the Asset had anticipated, so the Asset isn’t even bothering to keep a look-out. Or maybe it is because the Asset is stupid, so, so stupid—has to be, for allowing itself to make such a mistake.

Either way, the Asset doesn’t notice until it is too late, when the Captain is just mere feet away with his hand outstretched, holding a fifty-dollar bill.

“Here you go,” the Captain says, still holding out the money, and the Asset freezes.

It has the gloves on, and the sunglasses and the hat, and in its time on the run it had grown a scruffy beard, but apparently none of that is enough to fool the Captain. The Asset watches as his face transforms with shocked disbelief. 

“_ Bucky _?” the Captain breathes, and for a moment an image flashes in the Asset’s mind of the Captain on a street, that same dumbfounded expression on his face.

Then the moment passes and the Asset is up and running.

It ignores the Captain’s orders to “_ Wait, Buck, please!” _ and instead runs faster, ducking down alleyways and past bewildered pedestrians. Panic causes its heart to race. It can’t outrun the Captain, not now, not in this state. It needs to come up with something, fast. It passes an underground parking garage and loses a crucial second to deliberation before doubling back and dashing inside.

It is blessedly absent of witnesses, at least from what the Asset can see, and it wastes no time before dropping to the ground and rolling under a beat-up minivan. Seconds later it hears the rhythm of feet hitting the pavement pass by the entrance only to fade away as the Captain keeps going.

The Asset blows out a sigh of relief. It waits an additional two minutes before it rolls out from under the vehicle and hesitantly approaches the entrance. It listens, then cautiously ducks its head out. There is no sign of the Captain, just a man talking on the phone while walking his dog. It quickly strips off its red jacket and sunglasses and shoves them into its bag, hoping to avoid recognition at a glance, then pauses to collect itself before striding out into the street.

It walks in the opposite direction of the Captain, keeping its pace brisk but not fast enough to draw attention. It needs to regroup and put together a plan. The Captain is likely expecting it to flee the city, possibly to Manhattan or another highly populated area. This, of course, is because fleeing the city would be the smartest thing to do.

So maybe the Asset should do the dumb thing. Maybe it should stay right where it is, just for the time being, just until it can put together a plan of action to get overseas. It obviously can’t continue to tail the Captain anymore, now that the man is aware of its presence.

The Asset thinks that if it allowed itself to, it would probably feel saddened by this development. It had enjoyed watching the Captain and wandering around the city. The Asset cannot say that it had ever enjoyed a mission before. The Asset cannot say that it had ever enjoyed anything before, other than that ill-fated hotdog.

Perhaps this is for the best. Assets, after all, are not meant to enjoy things. It would serve the Asset well to remember this fact and stick to what protocol allows.

Regardless of its feelings, it appears it won’t have much of a choice in whether or not it leaves the city tonight. Its energy levels are flagging, drained from the adrenaline-fueled chase. It will be forced to stop and rest soon if it plans on being functional enough to keep moving, let alone run again.

The Asset keeps walking for as long as it can before it finally gives in and starts searching for a place to stop. It finds a desolate alleyway blocked by a fence at one end in the rougher side of town and decides that it’s good enough. It sinks down next to a dumpster, which it hopes will provide enough cover to block it from view, and lets its head thunk back against the wall.

Rest does not come easy that night. The Asset keeps jerking upright with every sound it hears, worried that the Captain or his team has found it at last.

In the end, the Captain isn’t the one the Asset should have worried about.

Well into the night, the Asset rouses from a fitful doze with a sense of unease in its chest. It pauses, listens. Three sets of footsteps are approaching the mouth of the alley, their tread too careful and deliberate to not be suspicious. There are more people on the roofs of the buildings on either side of the alleyway. The Asset can just barely make out the sound of their breathing, their movements.

Silently, the Asset rises to its feet, knife already in hand. Something unpleasant roils in its stomach. It does not wish to hurt the Captain or his allies, but it has no choice. Not when it’s been cornered like this, with no other way to defend itself. The only thing the Asset can do is fight back and try to keep its attacks nonfatal whenever possible. It keeps its back flat to the wall as it approaches the alley’s exit. The three units on the ground are getting closer, and the Asset stills, waits, calculating how close the nearest person is until—_ there. _

The Asset strikes, bringing the handle of its knife down onto its opponent’s head only to realize the man is wearing a helmet. The Asset compensates by swiping his legs out instead, barely getting the man down to the ground before the other two agents register what’s happening and strike back.

The Asset holds its ground, doing its best to minimize the damage done both to itself and to who it believes to be the Captain’s forces, but already it can tell that escape will be difficult. The agents from the roof have been alerted to the scuffle and are beginning their descent. Any moment now, the Asset will find itself outnumbered. It is trying to calculate a plan of attack when one of the agents gets cast in the glow of a nearby streetlight. It’s only for a second, but it’s long enough for the Asset to make out their uniform—black with a red octopus insignia on the sleeve. _ Hydra _.

For a split second, the Asset pauses. Hesitates. The Asset considers, for a moment, just letting the agents take it. Its body is failing, its mission is compromised, and each day it risks discovery from government agencies. And it had known from the beginning that it would have to return to Hydra eventually. Perhaps, it thinks, it should surrender. Hydra will take care of it, get rid of the pain and the exhaustion and the complexities of making decisions. Hydra can make all of this just go away.

But, the Asset thinks, what if it doesn’t _ want _ all of this to go away? It wants to keep its independence, its morning walks, its memories. It wants to keep the knowledge it had so painstakingly gained. It wants to keep the Captain.

It is at this moment that the Asset realizes something monumental: it does not _ want _ to return to Hydra. Not now, not ever.

And so it won’t.

A surge of energy allows the Asset to fight with renewed vigor. It slips into mission headspace, gracefully dodging and weaving and striking, no longer worried about the damage it causes to its foes. It may have mercy for the Captain and his allies, but it has none for the agents of Hydra. It can’t afford to, not if it wants to remain free.

The Asset easily blocks a wave a tranquilizer darts with its metal arm, then sends a man flying across the alleyway with its flesh one, knocking over two other agents in the process. It slices the throat of the agent on its left, then kicks out the legs of the one on its right. A bullet hits it in the thigh, the sound of the shot echoing in the alley, but the Asset ignores the pain, focuses only on the fight and the movements around it. The other agents are hesitant to shoot, likely fearful of hitting their allies or killing the Asset by accident, but the Asset has no such worries. It swipes a pistol from an agent’s holster and fires one, two, three times before the gun is knocked out of its hand. That’s four agents dead, two unconscious, two injured and three unharmed.

A snapped neck makes five dead, and a knife in the throat makes six. The Asset deftly knocks the heads of two agents together, hard enough to dent their helmets, then drops the bodies. The final agent cowers on the ground, clutching a broken leg. The Asset ignores his pleas and hauls him up, up, until the only things supporting him are the gloved hand on his throat and the brick wall behind his back. The Asset makes quick work of yanking off the helmet and shoving its metal hand into the man’s mouth, yanking out the false tooth and tossing it away.

“How did you find me?” the Asset demands.

The man remains silent, and his defiance is rewarded with a kick to his injured leg.

“How did you find me?” it repeats over the sound of a pained shout.

The man paws uselessly at the Asset’s hand, and it loosens its grip enough to allow him to speak. “T-trackers,” the man grits out, fury and fear burning in his eyes.

The Asset clenches its jaw. It tightens the hand on the man’s neck, just long enough to make his eyes bulge, then relaxes it again. “Explain.”

“I—I don’t know much. You have six, one in each limb, one in the back of your head, and one in your spine. We’ve been tracking your movements, but we got a report that Captain America had discovered you. Extraction was deemed necessary.” The man struggles to take in a breath, then releases it. “Please. That’s all I know. Please.”

The Asset believes him. He makes the agent’s death quick and painless, then retrieves its knife and exits the alleyway. It gets ten blocks away, progress slowed by its leg injury and exhaustion, then takes refuge in a deserted park.

A t-shirt from its pack is sacrificed for the sake of forming a makeshift bandage for the gunshot wound. It’s not ideal, but at the very least it will prevent the Asset from leaving a trail of blood wherever it goes. Next, the Asset strips off its jacket and trousers. It spends several minutes unsuccessfully trying to dig out the bullet before giving up and wrapping it with the shirt to deal with later. Further assessment reveals that it also sustained two knife wounds, one on its ribs and one on its forearm, and extensive bruising. The Asset catalogs this information, takes in its physical state, and deems itself functional.

It locates the tracker in its right bicep quickly, the small bump in its flesh obvious after a thorough examination. The Asset uses the knife to dig it out, then crushes it in its metal fingers. A quick investigation of its metal arm reveals that the Asset will be unable to access the interior without a screwdriver, which is unfortunate but not too much of a problem. The one in its left calf is luckily easy to get out, but the one in the back of its right thigh is harder. Once both have been destroyed, the Asset carefully feels along the back of its head until its fingers brush a lump against its skull. Digging out that tracker causes a substantial amount of bleeding, but the wound will heal within an hour regardless.

It’s the tracker on its spine that’s the problem. The Asset feels over every part of its back that it can as thoroughly as possible, only to reach the conclusion that the tracker must be positioned in a way that leaves it just out of reach. The Asset debates just slicing along the length of its spine with the knife, but to do so would be incredibly risky and is unlikely to even work.

The Asset huffs out a breath of frustration, ruffling the hair hanging in front of its face in the process. There is nothing the Asset can do. Even if it locates a mirror to help it see its back, it still won’t be able to reach the tracker well enough to attempt to dig it out safely. And with the tracker still implanted, Hydra will be able to track its every step. The Asset had been lucky it managed to escape this time, considering its physical state—if its functionality continues to decline, there is no way it will be able to avoid capture, especially if Hydra sends a team that is better prepared.

A wave of helplessness rushes through the Asset. It does not want to return to Hydra. It does not want to return to the pain and the submission and the Chair. At this point the only way to avoid doing so would be to decommission itself, but truly, the Asset doesn’t want to do that, either. A strange stinging sensation registers at its eyes, and when the Asset brings its fingers to them, they come away wet. It’s _ crying _. The Asset would laugh in disbelief if laughing was something it was programmed to do—then again, it isn’t programmed to cry either, and yet here it is.

The Asset harshly brushes away the tears, foolishly wishing it could turn back time and return to the previous morning, when it had sat and contently watched the Captain consume a massive breakfast. The Asset allows itself to dwell on that memory for a moment—the wind on its cheeks, the bustle of the street, the Captain’s smile as he drowned his pancakes in a river of syrup. And then the Asset realizes.

The _ Captain. _

The Captain is actively invested in keeping the Asset out of Hydra’s hands, both as a matter of national security and due to his belief that the Asset was James Buchanan Barnes. Whether or not that belief is true, the Captain had never once gone out of his way to hurt the Asset; rather, he had actively avoided doing so. Never before had anyone treated the Asset in such a way. And, based on all the readings the Asset can find, the Captain is a Good Man. Maybe, just maybe, he will take some amount of mercy on the Asset if it surrenders itself to his custody. Maybe his punishments will be kinder. Maybe he won’t force the Asset to sit in the Chair. Maybe…

The Asset shakes its head. It is getting ahead of itself. Right now, it has three options: become Hydra’s captive, become the Captain’s captive, or die. It doesn’t have to ask itself twice to know which option it prefers.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for violence, some self-harm, and suicidal thoughts.


	3. Chapter 3

The walk to the Captain’s apartment is a long and treacherous one. The Asset occasionally has to duck out of sight to avoid the few people still out at this time of night, and once has to hide from a passing police car. The pain in its leg is excruciating, its other wounds seem to be taking longer to heal than usual, and the Asset is beginning to feel woozy from blood loss and fatigue. Climbing up the fire escape and onto the balcony without making noise is a challenge, but the Asset perseveres, until finally it slides open the blessedly unlocked window and slips inside.

The Asset scans its surroundings, taking in the plush seating area, the flat screen television, and the kitchen. It silently opens one of the three closed doors to reveal a bathroom. The Captain is nowhere to be seen, so the Asset tries the next door and is far more successful.

This door opens onto a small bedroom, and curled up on the mattress is the Captain himself. The Asset pads closer, inching towards the bed, and takes a moment to observe the man. He is clutching a pillow to his chest, the blankets tangled around his legs, barely covering him. The Asset has the strangest urge to tug the blanket up and protect him from the cold night air. It doesn’t. Instead it studies the Captain’s face, which isn’t relaxed even in sleep, with a slight furrow between the brows. His eyes are tinged red, almost as if the man had been crying. As the Asset watches, the Captain shifts, burrowing deeper into the pillow and making a small noise.

“Ready to comply,” the Asset states.

The Captain awakes in an instant, jolting upright and grabbing a gun from the nightstand before aiming it steadily at the Asset, only to lower it as he registers what he was looking at. The Asset calmly stares back.

“Buck?” the Captain asks, an expression of wariness on his face.

The Asset isn’t sure what the appropriate response is, so it just nods. “Ready to comply,” it repeats.

Apparently, this is the correct action. A look of cautious hope takes over the Captain’s face. “You came back,” he breathes. “You—Jesus Christ, is that  _ blood?” _

The Captain appears to be alarmed, so the Asset rushes to reassure him. “Some of it is not mine,” it offers, certain this would alleviate some of the man’s panic.

It is wrong.

“ _ What _ ?” The Captain squawks, “ _ You _ —okay, you know what? Let’s start from the beginning. What happened?” As the Captain speaks, he sits up more fully and returns the gun to where he had gotten it.

“Approximately sixty-three minutes ago the Asset was ambushed by a group of eleven Hydra agents. After a brief fight, it dispatched each of them, then fled ten blocks north-east before deciding to come here. The Asset officially surrenders itself to your custody. It is ready to comply.” The Asset’s gaze follows the Captain as he stands from the bed and turns on the light before returning back to where the Asset is standing. The Captain’s eyes flit over the Asset, hands twitching at his sides as if he wants to reach out and touch. The Asset wonders why he doesn’t.

Instead the Captain ushers the Asset out of the room and into the kitchen, where it is then seated at the dining table. “Okay, you stay right here and strip down to your shorts. I’m gonna go grab the first aid kit. Don’t go anywhere. Please.” He waits until the Asset nods in compliance before hurrying out of the room.

The Asset carefully removes its shoes, socks, trousers, backpack, shirt, jacket, and gloves. It sets them all in a neat pile on the ground before sitting back down. It debates taking off its makeshift bandage, but the Captain comes back before it can decide.

He sets the first aid kit and a bowl of warm water on the table, then kneels down in front of the Asset. He reaches for the bandage, which has long since soaked through, then hesitates. “Do you mind if I take this off?”

The Asset tilts its head. It did not understand why the Captain feels the need to ask. For all intents and purposes, the Captain is now its handler. He can do whatever he wants to the Asset. Perhaps this is a test. The Asset nods.

This is the correct response. The Captain offers it a quick smile before quickly removing the bandage. He winces when he sees what is underneath and reaches for a wet rag from the bowl to wipe away the blood. “Jesus, did you try to get the bullet out yourself?”

The Asset nods again. The Captain shakes his head and gently wipes at the wound, but more blood just keeps oozing out to undo all the progress he has made. Eventually he turns his attention to the first aid kit and removes tweezers and a bottle of disinfectant. He gives the Asset an apologetic look. “This is gonna hurt,” he states, and the Asset just inclines its head in response.

Having a bullet pulled out is never a pleasant experience, but the Captain works quickly and carefully, and within moments the bullet is being dropped onto the table with a small clunk. The disinfectant is the worse part, but the Asset grits its teeth through the pain and diligently remains silent. As the Captain gets to work on bandaging the wound, he glances up at the Asset.

“Based on what you’ve told me I’m pretty sure I already know the answer to this, but I have to make sure. Do you intend to return to Hydra at any point?” The Captain’s gaze is steady, likely searching for any sign of dishonesty on the Assets face. There is no reason for him to worry. The Asset cannot lie to its handler.

“The Asset would decommission itself before returning to Hydra.”

The Captain’s hands still, pausing in their process of wrapping the bandage. “Decommission?” he repeats.

The Asset, thinking the Captain requires clarification, attempts to repeat its statement using a more human vernacular. “The Asset would put a bullet in its brain before returning to Hydra.”

The Captain lets out a shaky breath, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Okay, right,” he says, voice strangely tight. “How ‘bout we try not to let it get to that point, yeah?”

The question is rhetorical, but the Asset nods in agreement anyway.

The Captain finishes off the bandage on the gunshot and moves on to the knife wound below it. “What happened here?”

“Tracker removal,” the Asset reports.

A muscle ticks in the Captain’s jaw. “They put trackers in you?” His voice is calm, controlled, but the tension in his body is obvious. The Asset shifts uncertainly, unsure why its handler is upset with it, unsure if it will be punished.

“Yes. The Asset successfully removed four. Locations: left calf, right rear thigh, right bicep, and head. Two more trackers remain. Locations: left arm and spine. The Asset lacks the proper tools or reach to succeed in their removal.”

The Captain eyes the Asset critically. “You said you decided to come here. Is that why? Because you need help with the trackers?”

“Yes.”

“I’m glad you trust me enough to come to me for help. That—that means a lot to me, Buck.” The sight of the Captain’s gaze, so bright and sincere, causes a sharp headache. The Asset looks away.

The Captain insists on cleaning and treating each of the Asset’s wounds before working on the trackers. As he bandages the cut on the Asset’s ribs, a worried furrow appears between his brows. “You’re real thin, Buck. When was the last time you ate?”

“The Asset does not eat,” it supplies.

The concerned look intensifies. “Are you telling me that you haven’t eaten anything since the Helicarriers?” the Captain asks incredulously.

“Attempts to consume human foods have led to unsatisfactory results.”

The Captain closes his eyes and blows out a long breath, one hand raising to rub at his temple. “That’s—there’s a lot to take in there. First of all, _you_ _are_ human. You need to eat. If anything, you should be eating more than the average person due to the serum.”

“I am a machine,” the Asset counters. “I am the Fist of Hydra.”

The Captain shakes his head sadly. “No, Buck. You’re a person. No matter what Hydra did to you, nothing can change that.”

The Asset frowns, but remains silent. It is not meant to argue with its handlers.

“Look, the point is, you need nutrition. You can’t live without it. So we’ve gotta put our heads together and figure this out. What did you mean when you said eating led to bad results?”

The Asset details its experience with the hotdog. At further prompting it describes the malfunctions it had been experiencing and its various attempts, and failures, to alleviate them. The Captain becomes upset when the Asset finishes listing off its symptoms—( _ Jesus Christ, Buck, those are symptoms of  _ ** _starvation_ ** )—but makes no move to scold or punish the Asset. After it is done, the Captain rubs his jaw, lips pursed in thought.

“Okay so maybe eating a New York hotdog right off the bat didn’t make you feel so great. That doesn’t mean that you aren’t meant to eat. Do you remember what Hydra used to feed you? Maybe we can get something like that, until we figure out what’s going on.”

“The Asset was given nutrition via intravenous feeding bag, feeding tube, and, occasionally, a specially formulated drink,” the Asset reports dutifully.

The Captain’s jaw clenches again, but the man only nods and offers the Asset a tight smile. “Right. I’ll call a friend of mine, see what we can figure out. For now, how about we try and get those trackers out of you?”

The Captain is surprisingly gentle in his treatment of the Asset. The Asset had momentarily tensed when the Captain had first moved behind its back, but the Captain had kept up a reassuring stream of words detailing each of his actions. This, of course, is completely unnecessary—the Asset is no stranger to discomfort and would have functioned perfectly well regardless. If anything, the fact that it had showed its unease should have been grounds for punishment. Yet the Captain only focuses on his work, making a small, careful incision before removing the tracker with a pair of tweezers, his hands soft and steady. The Captain gives this wound the same treatment as all the others, cleaning and bandaging it with the utmost care.

Once the Captain is satisfied, he returns to his original position; crouching in front of the Asset to gaze into its eyes. “How’re you feeling, Bucky?”

“Status: functional,” the Asset reports. The Captain frowns in response.

“That’s… not what I meant. Are you in any pain? Are you feeling alright? Is there anything you need?” The Captain’s gaze is so earnest, so hoping, so full of trust. “I just wanna help, Buck. Please, let me help.”

“Pains levels: tolerable. A small screwdriver is needed for the removal of the final tracker.”

The Captain lets out a gusty sigh. He seems… disappointed. The Asset is unsure of how to remedy the situation. “Sure thing, bud,” he replies, a rueful smile on his lips. He gets to his feet and heads back into the bedroom, then returns moments later with a small toolkit.

“This should have whatever you need. I’m gonna go make a phone call real quick. Unless—” the Captain pauses, already half turned away. “Do you want me to stay? I can help. I’m pretty good with a screwdriver.”

The Asset doesn’t bother to glance up from where its scrounging through the kit. “No,” it responds.

“Right.” Another sigh, this one even longer, then the Captain retreats back into the bedroom yet again.

The Asset locates the appropriate tool and gets to work on its arm, shifting the plates until the one on its forearm with four small screws appears. In truth, the Asset has never performed maintenance on the arm before. But it has seen various scientists and mechanics tinkering with it countless times, and it feels it has gleaned enough knowledge from those experiences to attempt to remove the tracker by itself.

It does not mean to eavesdrop on the Captain’s conversation, but in its defense, the Captain made it difficult not to. The door to the bedroom is wide open, and his voice, while slightly hushed, is still loud to the Asset’s enhanced hearing.

“Sam!” it hears the Captain exclaim, “I—Oh, no, sorry, I know—nothing’s wrong, but—I got him Sam. He’s here.”

The Asset successfully removes the plate on its arm and suspiciously peers down into the mess of wires.

“No no no, everything’s fine! He—Sam, he came here on his own and everything. Well, yeah, pretty much. He’s a bit banged up, I guess Hydra tried to recapture him, but he’s talking, and he’s cooperating, and—God, Sam, can you believe it? Just a few hours ago I was thinking I’d never see him again, and now…”

After a fair amount of rummaging, the Asset spots the tracker, nestled up against one of the interior panels. The Asset prods at it with the screwdriver, but it appears to be glued to the metal somehow.

“Uh-huh. Yeah, yeah, I know… Oh! Yeah, right, I called because I need your help. No, not that kind of help, Sam, I told you I’ve got everything under control. Well, see, Bucky looks real thin, and he was telling me about all these symptoms he’d been having, and, well basically, he’s pretty much starving. He said he tried to eat a hotdog a while back but—yeah, exactly.”

One of the smaller tools in the Captain’s tool box proves to be useful. The flat end of it is thin enough to slip under a portion of the chip far enough for the Asset to begin to pry it upwards. It is difficult work—the angle is awkward and the Asset has to take care not to damage any wires—but the Asset persists. There’s a cracking sound as the chip suddenly snaps in half under the pressure, one part of it still attached to the metal and the other piece falling into a bundle of wires. The Asset lets out a frustrated huff. Technically it could stop here. The chip should be damaged enough…

The Asset decides to keep working on it. It is not one for taking unnecessary risks, and besides, it may as well occupy itself with this task until the Captain returns.

“Well, he said Hydra only ever fed him through a feeding tube or liquids… Hmm. Yeah, that makes sense. Where would I be able to find something like that? Really? Sam Wilson, you are a godsend. I’ll pay you back for this, I swear, I—right, right, I’m sorry. I’ll let you get back to sleep. But really, I can’t thank you enough. Alright. Bye.”

There is silence for a few moments, along with the sound of a shaky breath. The Captain re-emerges just as the Asset finishes fishing the last piece of chip out from its arm with a pair of tweezers.

“All good?” the Captain asks. He seems much more relaxed now, though the Asset supposes at least part of his demeanor may be faked.

The Asset nods in response and holds up the mangled chip, still trapped within the grasp of the tweezers.

“Nice.” The Captain pulls out a chair and straddles it with his arms crossed along the back, facing the Asset. “So, I just got off the phone with my friend Sam. He’s going to swing by tomorrow morning with some stuff that might help with the food issue. Is that alright?”

The Asset blinks, uncertain why its input would be relevant. “Ready to comply,” it offers.

The Captain’s lips purse slightly in response, but in the end, he just nods and continues. “I would suggest a shower, but I don’t want to risk getting all your bandages wet, so that’ll have to wait. If you want, though, you can always wash up in the sink. I’ll put out some supplies for you on the counter. For now,” the Captain stands and walks into the kitchen, then returns a moment later with a glass of ice water. “Just drink this. You need to stay hydrated, and the cold will help with your hunger pains a bit. I’m gonna go set some stuff up for you, but I’ll come back right after, okay?”

The Asset nods and follows the order to drink the water. The drink is cool and refreshing, and the Asset downs it quickly. Once all the liquid has been drained, the Asset pours some of the ice chips into its mouth. It crunches on them experimentally, and finds itself surprised with how satisfying they are.

The Captain returns by the time the Asset has emptied the cup. He smiles when he sees that the Asset followed his order successfully. “Alright, the pile of stuff on the counter in the bathroom is all yours. Go ahead and wash up. I just need to set up the bed in the guest room and then we’ll be all set for the night.”

The Asset nods and heads into the bathroom. It uses a wet, soapy washcloth to wipe itself down, carefully avoiding the bandages as it does so. The Captain did a fine job of cleaning away all the blood, so the Asset focuses on scrubbing away the built-up dirt and the unpleasant smell that clings to its skin. Another rag is used to dry it off. One more rag is used to clean its face and beard, and then the Asset is satisfied.

There are clothes in the pile the Captain spoke of, and the Asset assumes it is meant to wear them. It runs its hand along them; the fabric of the white t-shirt is soft and worn, and the pants are fuzzy and blue, adorned with little cartoon penguins. Both are freshly washed, but the Asset can detect the Captain’s scent beneath the fragrance of laundry detergent.

The Asset slips them on. It has to roll up the waistband of the pants in order to keep them from sliding off, but they are sufficient. Next, it picks up the toothbrush and toothpaste. The Asset carefully reads the directions on the tube and follows them to a T. In the past, Hydra had catered to any dental needs it had, and the Asset doesn’t wish to make any mistakes. The taste of mint is strong and causes the Asset’s eyes to water, but it endures the strange sensation and completes the task.

When it exits the bathroom, the Captain leaps up from where he had been seated on the couch. “Hey! You look nice. Uh—in the pajamas. I mean, they look good on you. I mean, uh, they fit?” As he speaks, a pink blush rises to his cheeks.

The Asset tilts its head, perturbed by the man’s behavior. The Captain winces, then shakes his head and leads the Asset into the guest bedroom. “Sorry, Buck. Just ignore me. It’s been a long day.” The guest bedroom is small, one side occupied by the bed, the other by a desk cluttered with various papers and drawing supplies. None of the supplies appear to have been used.

The Captain clears his throat and the Asset immediately returns its attention to him. “I changed the sheets on the bed and put some extra blankets on it, but if you get too hot you can just kick them off. There’re two water bottles on the nightstand, and if you need more, there’s always some in the kitchen. Oh, and I forgot to ask—do you need some painkillers? I don’t have any around since they don’t work on me, but I can run out and grab some real quick if you want.”

The Asset considers, then shakes its head. Its pain levels are manageable. The Captain nods in response, bouncing on the balls of his feet slightly. “All right. Let me know if you change your mind. If you can’t sleep you can watch TV in the living room or something. Or just come wake me up. I don’t mind. Uh, I think that’s everything. Good night.”

It nods to show it understands, then looks at the Captain expectantly. But the man just hovers in the doorway uncertainly, a nervous expression on his face. “Good night,” the Asset offers, thinking perhaps the Captain is waiting for a response. But he blinks, as though surprised, then offers the Asset a tight smile.

“I, just—you’ll still be here in the morning, right?”

The Asset nods. It knows better than to try to escape. The Captain’s shoulders droop in relief and he gives the Asset another smile, this one as soft as the pajama pants it’s wearing. “Sleep tight, Buck. And don’t hesitate to come get me if you need anything.” The door clicks shut behind him, and the Asset gives the room one last scan before turning off the light and climbing into the bed.

The sensation is…strange. The Asset cannot recall ever lying on a bed before. Pierce sometimes allowed it to sit on plush armchairs, but other than that, the closest thing it can think of is lying on a metal examination table.

This is nothing like that. The mattress is soft and sinks under the Asset’s weight. The sheets are smooth and cool against its skin. One of the blankets is fuzzy, the material similar to that of the pajamas. Everything is so different from what the Asset is accustomed to that it doubts it will ever be able to fall asleep. But exhaustion catches up to it, and before long, the Asset’s eyes droop closed as it drifts into unconsciousness.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

The Asset wakes; first slowly, then all at once. It sits up sharply in bed before it remembers where it is. A glance at the clock on the wall shows that it is already approaching seven o’clock in the morning, which is by far the longest the Asset has ever consecutively slept. Assessment of beds: positive.

It extracts itself from the tangle of blankets and slips out of bed. The floor is cold beneath its feet, but the pajamas have done a fine job of maintaining its body temperature. It can hear movement in the kitchen, and it tentatively opens the door and exits the room, unsure if it is permitted to do so.

The Captain is wiping the kitchen table down with a soapy rag. He glances up when the Asset enters and offers it a radiant smile. The Asset has observed that the Captain seems to smile quite a lot. “Good morning, Bucky,” he greets. “Did you sleep okay last night?”

“Sleep: sufficient,” the Asset reports. The Captain smiles again and nods.

“Good. I’m just cleaning up a bit before Sam gets here. He should be here soon; you can go ahead and do whatever until then.”

The Asset is confused by the lack of clear orders. It wonders if perhaps this is another test. The Asset hates tests, hates having to guess what actions will not lead to punishment. But the Asset had willingly surrendered itself to custody—it has no right to complain. If the Captain wishes to test it, then test it he may.

The Asset decides to go to the bathroom and brush its teeth. The Captain had provided it with the tools to do so, so the Asset can assume the Captain views the action as being important. Also, the instructions on the tube had indicated that brushing is required three times a day.

The minty taste is not quite so unbearable now that the Asset is prepared for it, but the flavor is still overpowering. The Asset decides it does not like brushing its teeth, and is glad to rinse the taste away with water.

When it re-enters the kitchen, the Captain offers no comment on its actions, just continues to scrub away at dishes in the sink. The Asset takes this to mean that its actions so far have been acceptable.

“Do you require assistance?” the Asset queries, eyeing the steadily growing pile of plates on the drying rack.

The Captain glances at it with surprise. “Uh, yeah sure, if you want. Sorry, I haven’t had the time to do dishes in a while, so there’s a lot of them. I’ve been pretty busy.”

The Asset tilts its head slightly. Based on surveillance, the Asset knows this information not to be true. The Captain has had plenty of spare time in the past few weeks, yet something has compelled him to lie.

The Asset says nothing. It cannot correct a handler.

They make quick work of the task, the Captain washing and rinsing and the Asset drying and placing them where directed. In no time at all the sink has been emptied and the dishes put away. The Captain has managed to get soapy water all down the front of his shirt. The Asset does not understand how he managed to do so.

“Thanks, Buck. Why don’t you take a break? I’m gonna go change my shirt real quick.”

The Asset complies. It has been sitting on the couch for seventy-three seconds when there is a loud buzzing sound. The Asset tenses, but before it can react, the Captain is back, heading over to press a button on the wall. “Come on up,” he says to the button.

“That would be Sam,” the Captain explains. “Are you sure you’re up for meeting him? You can just wait in the guest room if you want.”

Despite the words, it is clear the Captain would be disappointed if the Asset accepts. It shakes its head, and the Captain offers it a smile as a reward. “Good,” he says. “I’m gonna go meet him at the elevator. Stay right there.”

The Asset complies. A few moments later, it can discern the sounds of the Captain enthusiastically greeting someone down the hall, followed by the sound of approaching footsteps.

The man who enters the apartment is tall, with dark skin and a smile on his face, carrying a large box. This must be ‘Sam’.“Real nice of you to make the guy without super strength do all the heavy lifting, Steve,” he’s saying. “Very Captain America-like.”

The Captain snorts in response, but graciously takes the box from Sam.

Sam catches sight of the Asset and approaches, a look of caution on his face. He sticks out a hand and the Asset flinches minutely, preparing to be struck, before it realizes the man is attempting a handshake. The Asset has seen them enacted before but never experienced one itself. It offers out its flesh hand carefully, and Sam grips it tightly and offers it a slight smile.

“Hey there, man. Nice to meet you—officially, at least. My name’s Sam Wilson, I’m a friend of Steve’s.”

The Asset glances at the Captain for direction, but the man offers no guidance, only watches the Asset with a hopeful smile on his face. It turns back to Sam Wilson. “Hello,” it offers. Sam Wilson relaxes and removes his hand. Another glance at the Captain reveals that he is grinning. The Asset has followed the correct procedure.

The longer the Asset looks at Sam Wilson, the more familiar the man seems. There is a niggling sensation in the back of its brain. It scans through its memories, trying to identify the cause, and makes the connection. The Asset recalls: gunshots, its foot connecting with a chest, a glint of sunlight off the metal of a falling wing.

“You alright?”

The Asset looks back at Sam Wilson, smoothing its face where it can feel its eyebrows had been scrunched up. “Yes,” it reports. With this new knowledge in place, the Asset scrutinizes Sam Wilson more closely. It searches for signs of anger, resentment, bitterness. It finds none, but this does not mean that the intent isn’t present. It will have to stay alert, watch out for any signs that Sam Wilson intends to enact revenge.

Then again, if the Captain views this man as a teammate, then he is technically the Asset’s superior. He might have the authority to punish the Asset as he pleases, or perhaps request the Captain punish it on his behalf.

Sam Wilson turns back to the Captain, and the Asset tenses, waiting for the request. It never comes. Instead, Sam Wilson says, “Let’s check out what I brought you guys,” and moves back into the kitchen.

Together he and the Captain go through the contents of the box. It contains a wide variety of nutritional supplements: powders, liquids, juices, puddings, complete, supplemental, lactose free, hospital standard, consumer use, and more. Sam Wilson walks the Captain through the directions for each thing, and the Captain nods along, a look of determined concentration on his face.

“Now,” Sam Wilson says, “the key thing to remember is that these are temporary. The goal is to work him up to eating regular meals. You wanna start with the complete ones, figure out which one he likes best. From there maybe start branching out to the supplemental stuff as well as other liquid-based foods—we’re talking broth, simple smoothies, juice. Once he can handle these,” he pulls out a box of crackers, “he should be able to try some other stuff. Keep it bland, simple, and natural. And if at any point he can’t keep down something you gave him, backtrack and try again later.”

The Captain shakes his head, looking overwhelmed. “Jesus, Sam. This is…a lot. Where’d you even get all of this?”

“Friend I work with. But most of these you can order online. I’d take it slow, work up to stuff gradually. And don’t make him drink a lot of it at once. Small frequent meals are better.” He turns to look at the Asset. “You on board with this plan?”

The Asset blinks, surprised both by the fact that it was being addressed directly and that its opinion is being asked. “Yes.”

The Captain looks at the Asset with pride before turning back to the other man. “I really cannot thank you enough, Sam. How much do I owe you for all this?”

Sam Wilson shakes his head. “Don’t even worry about it, man. If you want, you can pay me back by staying safe and not being an idiot.”

The Asset thinks that Sam Wilson is asking for too much, considering who he’s talking to. Then it realizes that it is being disrespectful towards a handler and is hit by a surge of shocked panic.

Neither the Captain nor Sam Wilson seems to notice the Asset’s internal plight, and it allows itself to relax. Still, it will have to work on maintaining its discipline. It appears its brief stint of freedom has had a negative impact on its training—something it will have to correct, if it wishes to avoid punishment.

The two men continue chatting for a while before saying their goodbyes. Sam Wilson surprises the Asset yet again by addressing it directly. “Now, don’t be afraid to tell Steve to back off if you need to. Lord knows the man can hover like a damn helicopter.”

“Sam!” the Captain protests, but Sam Wilson ignores him and instead grins.

The advice doesn’t make any sense. The Asset could never speak to a handler in such a way. But Sam Wilson seems to be expecting a response, so it nods once, albeit hesitantly. Sam Wilson smiles again. “See you around. Steve, walk me out.”

The Captain complies, and the Asset is once again left alone seated on the couch. Sam Wilson is nothing like the Asset had expected. Despite the fact that the Captain is his superior, the man had repeatedly disrespected the Captain, and had even given him orders on several occasions. Even more surprising is the fact that the Captain hadn’t seemed to mind. He never once punished or even reprimanded Sam Wilson for his behavior.

The Asset’s thoughts are interrupted by the Captain’s return. The man beams at him. “Hey, that wasn’t so bad, was it? Now, how about we try and get one if these drinks in you?”

The Captain mixes together one of the powders with some water, diligently following the instructions on the side of the bag. When he’s done, he carries the glass over to where the Asset is still seated.

“Try this,” he instructs, “but don’t drink too fast.”

The Asset complies, taking a small sip of the liquid. The flavor is…strange. The taste of artificial vanilla floods the Asset’s mouth, and the mixture is oddly thick and creamy. The Asset slowly empties the contents of the cup, a few small sips at a time, while the Captain watches with an eager expression on his face.

“Well?” he asks once the glass is drained, “Is it good?”

“Acceptable,” the Asset reports.

The Captain smiles and nods. “Alright, good. Let’s just hope you can keep it down.”

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

After three hours pass by without the Asset getting sick, the Captain deems the experiment to be a success. He gives the Asset another, smaller cup to drink, this one also vanilla flavored but with a slightly different consistency. He nods in satisfaction when the Asset gulps down the last drop.

He takes the cup and places it in the sink, and when he returns, he smiles at the Asset. “How about we check those bandages?”

The Asset once again sits still in the dining room chair while the Captain frets over its wounds, adding more medicine and bandages to the ones that need it. The bruises have faded to an ugly green color and most of the knife wounds have scabbed over, but the area around the gunshot wound is red and inflamed.

“Well,” the Captain says, brows furrowed together, “they look better, but not as good as I’d expected. You have advanced healing, right?” At the Asset’s nod, the Captain presses his lips together. “Huh. In that case, everything except the bullet wound should have disappeared by now. If I had to guess I’d say maybe your healing rate has slowed since you haven’t been getting much food. I’ll have to call Sam later, see what he thinks. Hopefully with the shakes you’ll start to improve more.”

They spend the rest of the day lounging on the couch, watching television. The channel is playing some type of nature documentary, clips of a small lion cub pouncing on a grasshopper flashing across the screen. The Asset watches the footage intently, memorizing what it deems to be key facts given by the narrator, unsure if the Captain will test it on its retention later on, or why this information is even relevant. Perhaps he is planning on sending the Asset on a mission in Africa.

The Captain keeps glancing over at the Asset periodically as they watch, an unreadable expression on his face. It makes the Asset nervous. Does the Captain expect the Asset to be doing something in particular? Does he want the Asset to say something? Is the Asset behaving correctly? The Asset keeps its eyes locked on the screen and focuses on regulating its breathing. The Captain never moves to punish it, but the Asset does not take that as a relief. It knows it is being closely watched. It’s only a matter of time.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

The following day passes in a similar fashion. The Asset is given a shake for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It brushes its teeth after waking and before going to bed. It sits in the living room and watches television with the Captain, who continues to scrutinize its every move. The Captain doesn’t leave the apartment once, not even for his morning run. Instead he sits at the dining room table across from the Asset and eats breakfast and stares at it with his big blue eyes.

The Asset wonders when the Captain will send it on a mission, or place it in confinement, or perform maintenance on it. It waits, and it wonders, and it dreads. But the Captain does nothing, just feeds it and smiles at it and looks at it.

Sometimes, while the Captain is watching it, he will open his mouth as if to speak. But he never does. Instead he’ll snap it closed and glance away, a look of frustration on his face.

On the Asset’s third morning at the apartment, the Captain gives it a bowl of blueberries along with the normal vanilla shake. “I figured if you’re feeling up to it, we could try some new foods today. Nothing fancy—just maybe some fruits and crackers.”

The Asset considers, then nods. It carefully selects a blueberry from the bowl and places it into its mouth. When the Asset bites down, a burst of flavor fills its mouth, sweet and juicy. The Asset’s face must reveal its thoughts, because the Captain smiles at it. “Good, huh? Go ahead and eat however much you feel like, and let me know if you start to feel sick.”

After the Captain has eradicated his plate of eggs and the Asset has downed the shake and berries, the Captain checks its wounds. At this point, almost all of them have scarred, except for the bullet wound.

“Looking good,” the Captain says. “We’ll have to wrap your leg, but other than that I think you’re healed enough to shower now. No offence, Buck, but you really do stink.”

The Asset tenses, but the Captain doesn’t seem to notice, instead standing up with a smile. “Go ahead and head into the bathroom, I’ll be right there.”

The Asset grinds its teeth but complies. As it waits, it eyes the showerhead warily. The device doesn’t look similar to the hose Hydra used, but the Asset doesn’t trust it for a second.

The Captain returns with a bundle of towels in his arms, some fresh clothes and a waterproof bandage balanced on top. The towels and clothing are set onto the countertop, and the Captain crouches down to adhere the dressing to the Asset’s leg. “That should do it. You do remember how to shower, right?” The words are accompanied by a teasing grin that falls off his face when the Asset shakes its head.

“You—oh.” The Captain swallows, shakes his head. “Jeez, that was dumb of me, Buck. I’m sorry. Anyway, I guess the first step is undress? Then just—”

The Asset immediately strips off its shirt, then moves to push down its trousers and shorts. It does not understand why this causes the Captain’s eyes to go wide or his cheeks to turn pink. “Right,” he squeaks, averting his gaze. “I’ll uh, turn the water on for you.”

The Asset’s clothes are placed in a neat pile on the counter by the time the Captain turns back from where he had been fiddling with the taps. The Captain glances at it once, then blushes again and pointedly focuses his gaze on the ceiling. The Asset briefly looks up as well, but cannot discern what he is looking at. “So, the bottle labeled shampoo is for your hair, and you rinse it out after. The same for the one called conditioner. There’s a couple different kinds of body washes in there but it doesn’t matter which you use. That’s about it, I guess. Just holler if you need anything.”

The Captain moves to exit the room, and the Asset blinks in surprise. “Are you not staying?” it asks before it can stop itself, then freezes. It shouldn’t have said anything. It is not supposed to question its handler.

But the Captain just looks at it, an expression of surprise on his face. “Uh, no? I mean, unless you want me to?”

The Asset bites its lip, unsure how to respond. The Captain takes this opportunity to scrutinize it, and finally seems to notice the slight tremor running through the Asset’s body which it has been desperately trying to suppress.

“Buck,” the Captain says slowly, “do you  _ want _ to get in the shower?”

The Asset’s jaw tenses. It cannot lie. “No,” it reports, but moves to step under the spray nonetheless.

The Captain stops it with a hand on its arm. “Woah, wait a minute. If you don’t want to, then why are you trying to get in?”

It stares at the Captain blankly, not understanding. It had been ordered to get in the shower. Therefore, it has to get in the shower. Its wants do not matter.

_ (Assets do not  _ ** _want_ ** _ ). _

All of this should be obvious to the Captain, yet the man only continues to stare at it expectantly. The Asset has been asked a question. It must reply. “You said to.”

The Captain sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Buck, no, that’s—” He pauses, sighs. “Look, you don’t have to get in the shower if you don’t want to. You don’t have to do  _ anything _ you don’t want to. Got it?”

The Asset stares at him. He sighs again, then moves to turn off the water.

“Okay, that’s something we’re gonna have to talk about soon. Let’s figure out this situation first. Why don’t you want to get in the shower?”

The Asset has a flash of memory to the last time it was showered. It remembers the hose, the freezing water, the laughter of the guards, the bruises left on its skin from the pressure. It shudders. The Asset is not meant to admit weakness, but the Captain had asked it a question, and it cannot lie. It grits out a response. “Fear.”

The Captain’s brows furrow. “Fear? You’re—” All at once the Captain freezes, body going tense. His muscles seem to shake with restrained anger, and the Asset thinks that this is it, this is when it will be punished. But the Captain only breathes out an explosive breath, then shakes his head. “Shit. Jesus, Buck, I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have— Look, you don’t have to get in the shower. Not today, not ever. Not if you don’t want to.” He looks at the Asset beseechingly, but when it only blinks in surprise, he continues. “That said… we do need to figure out some way to keep you hygienic. It’s not healthy to go without washing for so long. How about…” the Captain rubs at his chin, “maybe a bath? Would that be okay? Would a bath upset you?”

The Asset considers. “Uncertain.”

The Captain eyes him carefully. “Do you want to try? If not that’s fine, we can work something else out later.”

“Uncertain,” the Asset repeats.

The Captain nods, then tilts his head thoughtfully. “How about this? I’ll fill up the tub, and you can check it out, maybe just dip your arm in or something, see what you think. If you’re still feeling all right about it, you can get in. If not, we’ll call it a day and go watch some TV instead.”

The Asset decides that this is a solid strategy. It watches as the Captain follows the necessary procedures to allow the tub to slowly fill with water. He adds some type of pink liquid from a bottle, then sticks his arm in and swirls it around, causing bubbles to form on the surface. The Captain notices the Asset watching and smiles. “This is something Nat gave me. It’s supposed to make baths more relaxing or something.” The Captain shrugs. “I’m not really sure if that’s true, but the stuff sure does smell nice.”

The Asset agrees. The air is laced with a soft floral scent, pleasant but not overpowering.

Once the water is high enough to fill most of the tub the Captain shuts off the tap and stands up. “There. Go ahead and test it out if you want.”

Carefully, the Asset approaches the tub and crouches down to stick its fingers in. The water is hot, but not scalding, and the Asset looks up at the Captain in surprise. “It’s warm,” the Asset observes stupidly, and the Captain gives it a sad sort of smile.

“Yeah, Buck. That’s how it’s supposed to be. I can make it hotter if you want, or colder.”

The Asset shakes its head and stands, steps in, then begins to gradually lower its body into the bath. Its muscles relax as they become engulfed in the water. The bubbles part to make way, then reform once the Asset is fully seated. “This is,” the Asset says. “This is.”

“Nice?”

The Asset nods, turning its head to gaze up at the Captain with a sort of wonder. The man is fully grinning now, a look of fondness on his face. The Asset wonders at the fact that some of that fondness just might possibly be directed at  _ it _ .

“Can I help you wash your hair?” the Captain asks, and the Asset nods in response. Far be it from the Asset to deny a handler’s request, and if that request just so happened to coincide with the Asset’s desire to keep its arms relaxed in the warm water, well, so be it.

The Captain gathers up the necessary bottles and a cloth, then kneels beside the tub. “Tip your hair back into the water,” he orders, and the Asset complies. For a moment, the Asset has a flash of fear that a hand will appear and force its head down deeper, depriving it of oxygen. But the hand never comes, and instead the Asset is able to rise back up easily.

“Good,” the Captain praises. “I’m gonna start washing your hair now, alright? Let me know if you need to stop.”

The Asset tenses at the feeling of hands on its scalp, only to slowly relax again as the Captain’s fingers start to knead into the skin, massaging the area and working up a lather. “There you go,” the Captain murmurs. “I’ve gotcha. Just relax.”

The Asset is unsure how much time passes while it is in the water. The tangles in its hair dissolve under the Captain’s gentle motions, as does the leftover tension in its shoulders. It follows the Captain’s soft-spoken instructions, soaks in his praises and attention. The Captain gives it a soapy cloth to wipe down its body with, and the tub is emptied and refilled twice until the water stays clear and the Asset’s skin is spotless. Eventually, the Captain taps it gently on the shoulder. “Your hair’s all done, but you can stay in here as long as you want. I’m gonna go start getting lunch ready. If you need you can turn this handle to add more hot water. Don’t be afraid to call me if you need anything.”

The Asset nods to show that it understands, and the Captain smiles at if softly before leaving the room. The Asset lingers in the water for several more minutes, but eventually it decides it cannot justify remaining in the tub any longer. It is already fresh and clean, and any more time spent in the water would be purely for indulgence, which goes against protocol.

It dries its skin with the soft towels the Captain has left for it, then pulls on the new pajamas, this time consisting of a gray t-shirt and pink pants with unicorns. The Asset finds itself once again surprised by the amount of softness its new life is filled with.

  
_[Art by maichan](https://maichan808.tumblr.com/post/188657503792/)_

When the Asset finally exits the bathroom and walks out into the kitchen, the Captain takes one look at it and then barks out a laugh. “Oh jeez, Buck, I’m sorry, I didn’t even notice which pants I gave you. Tony gave those to me as a joke. I can get you a different pair if you’d like.”

The Asset glances down and furrows its brow, not understanding what the big deal is. The pants are soft and warm, perhaps even softer than the blue penguin pants had been. They are adequate coverage. The Asset looks back up at the Captain and tilts its head. “These are acceptable,” it declares, somewhat defensively.

The Captain smiles at the Asset in amusement and shakes his head fondly. “Sure thing, Buck. Your shake and stuff are on the table, I’ll be there in a sec.”

Today, the Asset’s lunch consists of another shake, a banana, and a plate of saltine crackers. The banana somehow tastes different from what the Asset had been expecting, but is not altogether unenjoyable. As usual, the Captain sits across from it and keeps up a running chatter on various subjects. As the Asset crunches down on another cracker and watches the Captain gesture wildly mid-story, it is hit by a sudden wave of contentment, which is not a feeling the Asset can say it ever expected to experience while in confinement.

The sensation is somewhat dampened by melancholy with the realization this cannot last. Eventually the Captain will finish whatever strange testing process he is putting the Asset through, and then it will be back to pain and missions and punishment. But until then, the Asset decides to bask in what it has.

What it has is a full belly, warm pajamas, clean hair, and a perfect view of the smiling Captain. What is has is far more than what it deserves. But here it is nonetheless, and the Asset will get to keep this feeling, this memory, at least until the Captain decides to set it in the Chair and wipe it away.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

The rest of the day goes well, as does the one after that. The Asset finds that it cannot stop running the fingers of its flesh hand through its hair, reveling in its silky softness. The Captain quirks a smile at it whenever he notices.

After successfully keeping down small servings of various fruits and crackers, the Asset has been allowed to advance to the next step: toast. The toast itself is good; warm and crunchy. But the toppings are what really interests it—jams and jellies and syrupy honeys. The Captain had worried about all the butter and sugars upsetting the Asset’s stomach, but the Asset hasn’t had any such issues so far. Regardless, it is only allowed to have one slice at a time, and it still has to drink the shakes for each meal.

The Captain has also allowed it to try one of the puddings that Sam Wilson had provided. They are thick and messy, and have an underlying taste similar to that of the shakes. Assessment of the chocolate flavor: positive.

The Captain and it are currently watching television again, this time a program about space exploration. The Asset thinks that if it were allowed to, it would find the program to be extremely interesting. It thinks that perhaps it might even feel the urge to talk about it with the Captain, the way the Captain sometimes does with art or social issues. But the Asset knows this could be grounds for punishment, so it keeps itself in check and feigns neutrality.

The Asset is beginning to think that maybe the Captain would not enjoy punishing the Asset, not in the way some of its previous handlers had. In fact, the Asset gets the sense that the Captain might even dislike punishment, might feel dismayed at the action of having to punish the Asset. Perhaps this is why the Asset hasn’t been punished at all yet, so far.

This revelation does not encourage the Asset to misbehave, to push the boundaries of what is acceptable to see what it can get away with. Instead it discourages the Asset from misbehaving even further; the Captain has been a generous handler, and the Asset does not wish to upset the man by forcing him to punish it.

The space documentary cuts to commercials. The Asset, having learned by now that commercials are not mission critical intel and in fact have very little substance, allows its focus to shift to the Captain.

The man is sitting where he always does, in the armchair perpendicular to the couch, where the Asset is seated. He’s relaxed, sprawled out in the chair, posture loose, until suddenly he isn’t. His muscles tense, the change small but noticeable under scrutiny, and the Asset follows his gaze back to the TV screen.

It sees nothing amiss, just another commercial, this one advertising a documentary about the Second World War. Clips of soldiers running flash across the screen while a disembodied voice urges viewers to ‘tune in’ and lists the broadcast times before the commercial switches, this time to one about toilet paper.

Confused, the Asset looks back at the Captain only to see the man staring right back at it, a sense of almost hopeful anticipation on his face. When the Asset’s only response is to blink, he looks away with a disappointed sigh.

Ah, so the Asset has failed one of the Captain’s many little tests, though it’s not sure exactly how. It bites at its lip, but fails to come up with any way to remedy the situation.

The Captain remains restless for several minutes after the incident, shifting in his chair frequently and sneaking little glances at the Asset. Finally, he sighs and turns off the television, then turns to face the Asset more fully. The Asset is briefly disappointed that it will not get to find out whether or not Pathfinder successfully survived its journey to Mars.

“Buck—look,” the Captain begins, and the Asset gives him its full attention. “I know Sam told me not to do this, but I’ve got to ask. Do you remember me? Anything about me, about us, anything at all.”

“Yes,” the Asset replies, and an expression of relief overtakes the Captain’s face only to fall at its next words. “You were a target.”

“That’s not—I mean from before. The war, Brooklyn, our childhoods…any of that?”

The Asset suddenly realizes that the Captain is asking about the life of James Buchanan Barnes. “Negative,” it reports.

The Captain huffs in frustration. “Dammit, Buck, you have to remember  _ something _ ,” he urges. At the Asset’s blank expression, the Captain’s voice turns pleading. “What about your family? Becca?”

“The Asset has no family. It is a weapon. It was created by Hydra.”

The Captain growls and stalks out of the room. The Asset remains perfectly still, unsure what it is expected to do, fearing punishment. When the Captain returns, he is holding a manila folder in his hands. As he sits down, he slams it onto the coffee table. The Asset flinches at the sound, but the Captain doesn’t seem to notice, instead flipping open the folder and spinning it to face the Asset. Two pictures are clipped to the first page, one of James Buchanan Barnes in dress uniform, and the other of the Asset’s face, covered in frost. The Asset stares at the images. They stare back.

“This is your file,” the Captain explains. “Nat put it together, using information and notes she’s found from different databases. It’s not that detailed, but it one part of it does talk about your early days of captivity.” The Captain’s face twists as he flips the pages. “About how they conditioned you.  _ Tortured _ you,” he spits out. He lands on the correct page and points a finger at a specific place in the text. “Look, see. It says it right there, ‘Sergeant Barnes’. That’s you, Buck.” He waits until the Asset looks back up, and stares into its eyes, his expression determined.

“You aren’t an ‘asset’, Bucky,” he says firmly. “You aren’t a thing. You’re a  _ person _ . And you don’t belong to Hydra.”

The Asset is dubious of that assessment, but nods eagerly when the Captain finally says something it agrees with. “The Asset does not belong to Hydra,” it agrees, “It belongs to you.”

“No, Buck, you don’t. You belong to yourself. No one else.”

The Asset feels its brows furrowing, its mouth frowning. It does not understand. “You are its handler,” it counters.

A look akin to shock passes over the Captain face before he blinks and shakes it away, replacing it with resolution. The Asset absentmindedly observes that the Captain sticks his jaw out when he’s being stubborn. “You’re your own handler.”

“But… the Asset surrendered itself to you. It is your prisoner. That makes it yours.”

“Jesus, Bucky, no! How could you think—you aren’t my prisoner, you’re my  _ friend _ ! You’re free to do whatever you want—hell, you could leave right this second if you wanted to! You don’t—”

The Captain’s words are tinged with hurt anger, but all the Asset can focus on is one word. “Leave?” it repeats, interrupting the Captain mid-rant.

The Captain falters for a moment, face unreadable. “Well, yeah. If you wanted to.”

The Asset pauses, considering. If it were to leave, it could be free again. It wouldn’t have to worry about obedience or punishment or orders anymore. It can go back to its days of walking through the park and making its own choices. It nods decisively. “The Asset wishes to leave.”

“I—oh. Okay.”

The Asset tilts its head. “You will not prevent it from doing so?”

“No,” the Captain says, expression pained.

“And you will not come after it?”

The Captain hesitates, emotions warring across his face, then deflates. “No, Buck. Not if you don’t want me to.”

The Asset nods and moves to stand.

“Wait!” The Captain bursts out, “Just—wait a second. I won’t stop you from leaving, if it’s what you really want, but just…” he sighs and runs a hand through his hair, causing it to spike up. “Can I at least put together a bag of stuff for you to take? I washed your old clothes, and… look, it’d just make me feel a hell of a lot better if I knew you weren’t out there empty-handed.”

The Asset nods and sits back down. It waits patiently, watching as the Captain bustles around the apartment, throwing various supplies into the Asset’s old backpack. Finally, when the bag is so is full it looks just about ready to burst, the Captain returns to the couch and thrusts it out towards the Asset. His hands are shaking.

The Asset stands and takes the bag, shrugging it onto its shoulders. The Captain wrings his hands nervously, following the Asset as it walks towards the door. “I packed you some clothes, toiletries, a small first aid kit, bottles of water, crackers, and one of the big cans of powder for the shakes. Just mix it with water—the instructions are on the label. And…” the Captain pauses by the dining room table, and the Asset pauses as well to look at him. “I put a piece of paper with my phone number on it in there. Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything—and I mean  _ anything _ , Buck. No matter what. And… I’m gonna miss you, alright?”

The Asset is not sure it fully understands, but it nods regardless. “Thank you,” it says sincerely. “Your kindness is appreciated.”

The Captain gives it a stained smile. “Anytime, Buck.”

The Asset nods again, then continues its path towards the door. It glances back when it reaches it. The Captain has collapsed into one of the dining room chairs, head in his hands, posture devastated. The Asset hesitates, but the Captain makes no move to stop it. The Asset ignores the pang in its chest and walks out the door.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

It has to duck into a public restroom and change clothes soon after leaving, since its pajama pants appear to be attracting an undue amount of attention. It switches into its old jeans instead. The blood stains have been washed out, but a hole remains where the bullet had pierced through.

The Asset really should throw away the pajama pants. The material, while warm and soft, is flimsy and non-compatible with life on the streets. But for whatever reason, the Asset cannot bring itself to part with them, so it instead folds them neatly and places them deep into its bag.

The Asset decides to head north. As it walks, it finds it cannot shake the Captain’s devastation from its mind. It understands that the Captain is upset to have lost such a valuable resource, but the Asset does not wish to continue to be used, not if it doesn’t have to, not if it has a choice. And yes, the Captain had never assigned it any missions, or even mentioned the possibility of one, but it was only a matter of time. The Asset is too valuable of a tool to be wasted.

The Asset thinks, that if it has a choice, it will always choose to be free.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

As the Asset walks, it reflects on the folder the Captain had shown it, the words the man had spoken so confidently. The Asset knows the words not to be true, it knows it is not a person, and yet…

The Asset is beginning to experience doubt. After all, it had disobeyed when it failed its mission and failed to return to Hydra. It had given in to its wants when it had chosen to remain free. It had felt pleasure when it had taken the bath. It had felt fear when Hydra had attempted to capture it.

Assets do not disobey. Assets follow orders above all else. Assets do not think. Assets do not know mercy. Assets do not feel fear. Assets do not want. Assets are unmoved by pain. Assets cannot feel pleasure. Assets do not make decisions for themselves. Assets do not want. Assets do not do not do not.

But the Asset does.

But Assets do not.

The Asset is beginning to question whether or not it is an Asset.

But if the Asset is not an Asset, then what is it?

The Asset thinks on this throughout the course of the day, as its slips through the Manhattan crowds and heads towards the southern border of Connecticut. It eventually decides that it no longer meets the proper specifications of an Asset.

So it is not an Asset, but neither is it a person. Even if that file the Captain had shown it was true, it doesn’t think it knows  _ how _ to be a person.

It takes a whole other day of consideration before it reaches a decision. The Asset thinks on it as it walks, as it rests, as it mixes up the shakes for consumption.

The Asset decides it could be a soldier. Its handlers have referred to it as such as in the past, and the exhibit in the Smithsonian had stated that James Buchanan Barnes had been a soldier. Therefore, if the file is correct, the title would still fit.

The Soldier nods to himself, satisfied that the issue had been resolved.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

The Soldier is curled up on a park bench in Norfolk, Connecticut. The cloudy skies had opened up approximately ten hours ago, and rain has been drizzling down ever since, seeping through his clothes and chilling his skin. The weather hadn’t been so bad earlier, with a little sunlight peeking through the clouds offering some warmth, but now it is nighttime and there is no relief.

The Soldier shivers and tries to focus on forcing his body to rest, but to no avail. Sleep has been difficult. The Soldier misses the bed with the plush pillows and silky sheets. He misses the jelly toast and pudding cups. He misses the softness of his hair, which has long since returned to its usual state of tangled, greasy frizz. And above all else, he misses the  _ Captain. _

He misses the Captain’s smiles and his laughs, he misses his insufferable stubbornness and infallible kindness, he misses his bright blue eyes and his hulking frame. He just  _ misses _ him.

The Soldier curls up tighter and rubs a hand over his face. He had been so  _ sure _ , so _ certain _ that leaving was the right thing to do, that freedom was what he wanted. He had thought that maybe, on his own, he might be able to find happiness.

But instead the Soldier has found nothing but misery. His muscles ache, he can’t sleep, and his feet are once again covered in blisters. He has no purpose, no mission, nothing.

Maybe freedom isn’t all that it’s cut out to be. Maybe the Soldier simply isn’t built for it. Maybe it doesn’t hold the key to happiness.

Maybe the Captain does.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 


	4. Chapter 4

And so the Soldier once again finds himself clambering up the rickety fire escape through the Captain’s (worryingly still unlocked) living room window. A quick search reveals the apartment to be empty, and the Soldier frowns as he glances at the clock, which states the time as just past noon. The Soldier has no idea where the Captain might be at this time, and going out to look seems pointless. Instead he sits at the dining room table and waits for the Captain’s return.

He doesn’t have to wait long. Less than thirty minutes later, a key clicks in the lock and the front door swings open. The Soldier drinks in the sight of the Captain, who glances up and promptly drops the carton of milk he is holding.

He opens his mouth as if to say something, but the Soldier cuts him off before he can speak. “I wish to return to your custody.”

The Captain had looked hopeful, but at these words his expression shutters. He sighs and bends down to pick up the now-dented carton of milk, then sets it on the kitchen counter.

“Buck…” he begins, then sighs again and purses his lips. “Listen. It’s not custody. I’m not going to keep you here against your will. Ever. You’re free to stay here, but only if you want to. And if not, I can pull some strings, see about getting you an apartment somewhere. And maybe… well, you can just drop by sometimes. If you want. Whenever you want. Even if I’m not home. Or—”

The Soldier shakes his head before the Captain can continue. “I want to stay with you. Please. If I can.”

Tension drains out of the Captain’s shoulders. He offers the Soldier a watery smile. “Of course you can, Buck. Anything you want. It—that means a lot to me. I… Jesus, Bucky, can I come over there and give you a hug?”

The Soldier has never experienced a hug before and is not certain he wants to try now, but the Captain looks so hopeful and earnest that he finds himself nodding. He barely has time to stand before the Captain is crashing into him, arms wrapping around his torso and sweeping him into an embrace.

The Soldier tenses, then relaxes. He can feel the Captain’s shaky breaths against his neck, feel his warmth seeping into him. Slowly, the Soldier brings his arms up to wrap around the Captain. The Captain squeezes back even harder and lets out a sob, shaking his head against the Soldier’s shoulder. “Jesus, Buck. I really missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” the Soldier admits softly. The Captain pulls back enough to blind the Soldier with a beaming grin.

“God,” he breathes. “I—Sorry, Buck, I’ll pull myself together, I swear. I’m just…really happy you came back.” He shakes his head and steps back, grin still in place. “Um, I should put away the milk, throw some lunch together. You want jelly toast?”

The Soldier nods eagerly as he sits back down, stomach already rumbling.

The Captain interrogates him (gently) about his time away, what he’s been up to, whether he’s been drinking the shakes and eating the crackers, how he’s been sleeping. The Captain spins around to face him from where his back is turned at a few of his responses— _ Christ, Buck, you walked all the way to Connecticut? — _ but overall seems satisfied with his answers. The Soldier politely ignores the sniffs that sometimes come from the Captain, the way his voice wobbles, the way he occasionally wipes hurriedly at his eyes.

The Captain brings over a shake, a bowl of applesauce, and the toast for the Soldier, then goes back for his sandwiches. The Captain stares at him as they eat, soaking in the Soldier’s image, but for once the Soldier doesn’t mind. In fact, he finds himself doing the same.

Once their plates are cleared and their bellies are full, the Captain clears his throat and puts on a serious expression. “Before we get too far into this, we need to talk, set down some ground rules. I should have done this when you first came here, but I didn’t—I was too scared, I guess. But that was a mistake, and that’s on me. We’re gonna do it right this time.”

The Soldier tilts his head, confused, but nods along slowly.

“Before I start, I guess I’d like to get an idea of exactly what you were thinking, when you were staying here before. Like, how you perceived the situation, why you thought I was your handler, what you thought I might do to you, all that. That is, if you’re alright with telling me. You don’t have to if you don’t want.” The Captain’s hand rubs at the back of his neck, a nervous gesture, as though he’s afraid of what the Soldier might have to say.

The Soldier bites at his lip, considering. “When I first reached the decision to come here, I was uncertain of what might happen. I thought that perhaps you might lock me away, or reprogram me. But I did not wish to be captured by Hydra, and I did not wish to die, so I decided the risk was worth it.” The Captain looks pale, but he nods for the Soldier to continue, and so he does. “The instant I surrendered myself to you, you became my handler. Even if you did not act like one.”

The Captain’s lips press together. “What does that mean to you, exactly? What does someone being your handler entail?”

“I must obey my handler without question. I must show my handler respect. I must remain silent unless spoken to. I must stick to protocol. Any deviation will be met with punishment. My handler has the right to punish me however they see fit. My handler is the one to assign missions, oversee maintenance, and ensure compliance.” The Soldier reports this stoically, the information drilled into his very being.

This appears to upset the Captain. He rubs his hands across his face harshly. “That’s why you thought you had to get in the shower. If I hadn’t noticed, you wouldn’t have said anything, would you? You would have gotten in no matter how upset it made you.”

“Correct.”

The Captain’s face twists, and the Soldier feels a pang of guilt for upsetting him. “Even if you were not actually my handler, you were still the kindest handler I could ever imagine.”

The Captain grimaces. “That doesn’t really make me feel any better.” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, then sets his jaw. “Okay, first things first: I am not your handler. I do not give you orders. Well, okay, I might by accident, but you don’t have to follow them. I will  _ never _ punish you. If you do something wrong then we’ll talk about it, but it is not my—or anyone’s—place to hurt you. You don’t have to stick to protocol—hell, I don’t even know what protocol  _ is _ , so I won’t even be able to tell if you don’t. There won’t be any missions. And you can come and go whenever you want, although I would appreciate it if you’d let me know if you’re planning on being gone for a while.”

The Soldier blinks. This is… not what he had been expecting when he made the decision to return. This is beyond what he could have dared to even hope for.

The Captain shifts in his seat. “Buck? Does that sound all right to you?”

‘ _ All right _ ?’ This is beyond alright. This is impossible. This is freedom. “Yes.”

The Captain relaxes and breathes out a sigh of relief. “Good,” he says. “Good. Oh, and I wanted to mention—I noticed that you’ve been referring to yourself differently. Like… a person, instead of an asset.”

The Soldier shakes his head. “I am not a person. Not yet. But I came to the realization that I am no longer an Asset, either. Instead, I am a Soldier, I think.”

The Captain purses his lips, then nods slowly. “Alright. Can—Is it okay if I still call you Bucky?”

The Soldier tilts its head in consideration, then nods. “That is acceptable. Do as you wish.”

The Captain’s eyes are warm as he gazes at the Soldier, and he shakes his head minutely, as if in disbelief. “I’m real proud of you, Buck. You can’t even imagine…” he trails off and shakes his head again.

A small part of the Soldier preens at having made the Captain proud, though he is not sure why. If the Captain is no longer his handler then his opinion should no longer matter, but somehow, the Soldier finds that now his opinion matters even more.

“Anyway,” the Captain says, clearing his throat. “I think that just about covers everything. But if you think of something else or have any questions, just let me know. Now that that’s out of the way, do you mind if I check and see how the bullet wound is healing? And maybe after that you can take a bath if you want.”

The Soldier perks up at the prospect of a bath. “Yes, please.”

He is not sure why this reaction causes the Captain’s eyes to shine with fond amusement.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

The Captain deems that the wound is looking much better, now just a puckered scar. He had fussed and fretted upon seeing the already-healing blisters on the Soldier’s feet, but had given up on trying to wrap them in bandages after the Soldier had protested. Instead, they reach the compromise that the Soldier would put some medicine on them after the bath. He still hands the Soldier another waterproof bandage for the bullet wound ‘just in case’, along with some fluffy towels and another set of pajamas. The Soldier is strangely disappointed to find that these pajamas are just a plain navy-blue color, with no little cartoon animals in sight.

The Captain dismisses himself to go set up the Soldier’s bed. While the bath is still enjoyable, the Soldier finds that it is not quite as nice when no one else is there to wash your hair for you. Also, the Soldier’s hands are not as skilled as the Captain’s, and they fail at getting all of the tangles out. Regardless, the Soldier steps out of the bathroom feeling clean and refreshed. The soft floral scent of the bath mixture clings to his skin, replacing the usual odor of sweat and musk.

He finds the Captain seated in the living room, tapping at something on his cell phone, a cooking show playing quietly on the TV. He glances up when the Soldier enters and smiles. “Hey, Buck. I put all the clothes from your backpack in the wash—” he freezes, suddenly looking oddly guilty. “Shit. Uh, I hope that’s all right. I really shouldn’t have gone through your stuff without asking.”

The Soldier frowns at the Captain’s contrite expression, not understanding what the big deal is. “That is fine,” he replies, sitting in his usual spot on the couch.

The Captain shakes his head adamantly. “It’s not. You deserve to have some privacy, and that extends to not having to worry about anyone digging through your things. I’m sorry, and I’ll do better next time. Oh, and the remote is right there if you wanna pick something else to watch. I just need to finish this text message.”

The Soldier blinks. He has never been allowed to pick the television show before. He picks up the remote and eyes it suspiciously, then presses the button to change the channel. He flips through the different programs, pausing briefly on a few different ones, until he lands on an episode of the program called “How It’s Made.” The Soldier enjoys this show. It is both informative and relaxing, and the Soldier enjoys watching all the little robots and machines do their work.

He glances at the Captain to gauge whether or not this is an acceptable choice, but the Captain doesn’t even look up from his phone, so the Soldier sets down the remote and turns his attention back to the TV. A few minutes in he notices the tube of medicinal creme sitting pointedly on the coffee table. The Soldier huffs, but obligingly grabs it and begins applying the salve to the blisters. The Captain glances up from his phone to give him a proud smile, which the Soldier pointedly ignores, despite the warm feeling blooming in his chest.

Eventually the Captain puts away his phone to watch the program with him. They get through two whole episodes before the Captain goes into the kitchen to retrieve a pudding cup for the Soldier and a bag of chips for himself.

By the time the Soldier has finished off the last spoonful of pudding, his hair has fully dried from the bath. He tries to run his hand through it the way he had before, but his fingers keep snagging on the residual tangles, and the experience is nowhere near as satisfying as it was last time.

The Captain notices the Soldier’s mounting frustration and frowns in concern. “Is your hair still tangled?”

“Yes,” the Soldier huffs, crossing his arms across his chest and decidedly  _ not _ sulking.

“Want me to brush it for you?”

The Soldier pauses. His own attempts at brushing in the past have been unsuccessful, but it is possible that the Captain may be more skilled. Also, the Soldier had enjoyed it when the Captain had washed his hair before, and therefore may find hair brushing to be enjoyable as well. “Yes.”

The Captain gives him a soft smile. “Alright, let me go grab a comb. I’ll be right back.”

When the Captain returns, he plucks two cushions off the couch and places them on the floor directly in front of the armchair before sitting down. “There,” he says, patting the cushions, “see if that’s comfy enough.”

The Soldier eyes the Captain skeptically, then carefully lowers himself onto the cushions. He shifts around until he finds the ideal position, then tips his head back towards the Captain. “Proceed.”

The Captain snorts out a laugh, but obliges. “At least you’re comfortable enough to start bossing me around,” he mutters.

The Soldier tilts his head. “Is that not acceptable behavior?” he queries.

“It’s perfectly acceptable,” the Captain reassures, his hands gently gathering up a portion of the Soldier’s hair, “But you should know better than to expect me to listen half the time.”

“Agreed,” the Soldier says, and the Captain laughs behind him.

The Captain diligently works the comb through every single matt and knot. The Soldier had half-expected the experience to be painful, like it had been when he had tried in the past, but the Captain’s touch is as gentle as ever and the Soldier only feels a slight tug from time to time. In fact, the sensation is nearly as relaxing as the hair washing had been. By the time the comb is able to glide through his hair smoothly and without interruption, the Soldier is nearly boneless, and has to stop himself from giving in and leaning back against the Captain’s warm legs.

Eventually the Captain sets the comb aside to run his fingers through the Soldier’s hair instead. He hums in satisfaction as his fingers easily pass through the strands. “That’s better,” he murmurs, and the Soldier has to suppress a shiver at the low rumble of his voice combined with the feeling of his hands in his hair.

This reaction is…strange, and a bit concerning, but the Soldier decides not to worry about it yet. Instead he just pushes his head back into the Captain’s hands insistently, and revels in the sound of the soft laugh the Captain gives in reply.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

That night, bundled up in fluffy blankets on his super-soft mattress, the Soldier finds rest easily, a peaceful sensation deep in his bones. As he rubs his face on his pillow and feels sleep begin to overtake him, he cannot remember why he ever wanted to leave in the first place.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

Over the next few days they fall back into their old routine, until it’s almost as though the Soldier had never left at all. His meal options expand to allow for soups, smoothies, and oatmeal. So far, strawberries smoothies are the Soldier’s favorite, although he also appreciates the banana and chocolate flavors. The Captain mixes his usual shakes into the smoothies themselves, and the taste of the fruit and other added ingredients greatly improve the flavor. The oatmeal is also good, especially when the Captain mixes in berries or apple chunks.

On one particular morning, the Soldier finds himself craving one of those strawberry smoothies. He and the Captain had already eaten breakfast earlier, but apparently the two slices of jelly toast with the shake had not been enough to satisfy the Soldier’s steadily increasing appetite. He finds himself wandering from his seat on the couch into the kitchen, but the Captain has never given the Soldier explicit permission to acquire resources, and he does not wish to impose.

The Soldier would ask, but the Captain is currently in the shower, and the Soldier has learned that it is rude to intrude on such an activity. Instead he sits down at the dining room table to wait impatiently. He is perfectly capable of remaining still for long periods of time, but the Soldier has noticed some people tap their foot while waiting, and decides to try doing so now. While the activity does indeed help burn off a small amount of anxious energy, it doesn’t make the waiting any more bearable. The Soldier stills his foot and tries drumming his fingers on the table instead, but finds the effect to be the same. Strange.

The Captain finally emerges from the bathroom with a cloud of steam. The Soldier wastes no time in standing and advancing upon him.

“I wish to drink a strawberry smoothie,” he declares.

The Captain blinks in surprise, then smiles and shakes his head. “You know, you could have just made one yourself, if you really wanted to,” he says as he walks towards the kitchen.

The Soldier, trailing after him, tilts his head. “So I am allowed to take food from the kitchen?”

The question stops the Captain in his tracks, and he turns to look at the Soldier in bewilderment. “Of course you are, Buck! You—ah jeez, I guess I should have explained this to you. You’re allowed to use anything in the apartment. And I mean anything. What’s mine is yours, buddy.”

The Soldier nods and inclines his head. “Thank you. You are allowed to use any of my belongings as well,” he offers politely.

The Captain laughs. “Thanks, bud. Now what do you say we make that smoothie of yours?”

The Captain walks the Soldier through each step of the production of the smoothie, explaining where to procure the materials and how much of each ingredient to use. The Soldier listens carefully and commits each detail to memory. The resulting smoothie is as good as always, and the Soldier slurps it down eagerly while the Captain watches with a smile.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

One week after his return to the Captain’s apartment, the Soldier scrounges up the courage to ask to go outside on his own. He knows that the Captain had said he is allowed to do so, but some small part of him is afraid that the man will change his mind, will decide to lock him away instead.

In the guest bedroom, the Soldier pulls on his old jeans and a sweatshirt. The scent of laundry detergent clings to them from when the Captain had washed them, and the smell manages to calm the Soldier, if only a little bit.

The Soldier almost changes his mind, almost gives up and switches back into his pajamas instead. But then he thinks about the way the sun feels on his face, the way the wind feels on his cheeks, and decides that at the very least, he can try.

He strides out into the living room to find the Captain curled up in his usual armchair, a book in hand. He doesn’t even look up at the Soldier’s entrance, and the Soldier only hesitates for a second before squaring his shoulders. “I want to go on a walk.”

The Captain glances up at him mildly, taking in his posture and state of dress. “Alright,” he says. “Want some company?”

The Soldier considers, then shakes his head. “No. Thank you.”

“Okay. See you when you get back. Stay safe.” The Captain returns his attention to his book, and the Soldier blinks in surprise. That was… easier than expected.

The Soldier spends hours roaming around the city, walking along bustling streets and secluded park trails. He finds a patch of shade under a billowing oak tree and just sits in the grass for a while, idly watching bees flit around a patch of flowers nearby.

After he’s soaked up enough sunlight and fresh air he begins the trek back to the apartment. He returns to find the door unlocked, the Captain in the kitchen slicing up a green apple. There are already a substantial amount of slices on a plate next to him. The man looks up and beams when the Soldier enters. “Hey, Buck! Have a nice walk?”

“Yes,” the Soldier reports, as the Captain grabs another apple from the bowl.

“Anything exciting happen?”

The Soldier thinks, trying to decide on which fact to share, what the Captain might find interesting. “There were bees,” he offers haltingly.

The Captain glances at him with concern. “Did you get stung?”

“No,” the Soldier shakes his head, “I just watched them. There was a butterfly, too. A yellow one. And when I was sitting in the grass, a caterpillar climbed onto my boot.” The Soldier had let it crawl around for a while, then gently deposited it on to a nearby tree branch when he had to leave.

The Captain finishes with the apples and throws away the cores. “Sounds like a good time. I was just about to eat some apples dipped in caramel. Would you like to try some?”

The Soldier nods, and the Captain divides the large pile of slices onto two plates, then fills two small bowls with liquid caramel. They each take their respective plates to the coffee table, where the Captain turns on the TV and flips to the History Channel.

The Soldier watches carefully as the Captain picks up a slice and uses it to scoop up some caramel, then repeats the process himself before popping the whole slice into his mouth. The Soldier can’t help a small noise from escaping his throat as his taste buds light up, the sweet and sour flavors and crunchy and smooth consistencies creating a strangely delicious contrast.

The Captain looks over at him and smiles, shaking his head slightly. “I knew you’d like this. You always did have a sweet tooth.”

The Soldier doesn’t think that any one of his teeth is particularly sweeter than the others, but declines to comment.

They steadily work their way through their snacks, watching the program on cars as they munch. The Soldier hesitates as he swirls one of his few remaining slices in the caramel, glancing up at the Captain nervously, debating whether or not to ask the question that’s been niggling at his mind.

Eventually the Captain notices his fidgeting and glances over. “Everything alright, Buck?”

The Soldier nods, then opens his mouth. “Yes. Just… I have a question.”

“Go ahead, Buck. You can ask me anything.”

The Soldier glances up long enough to meet the Captain’s eyes—another thing he’s been working on, both because the Asset was not allowed to make eye contact and because looking into the Captain’s gaze for too long gives him a headache more often than not. “Why don’t you go outside anymore? On your morning runs?”

The Captain blinks in surprise. “Oh. Well… I dunno, Buck. I guess I just want to be here with you instead, in case you need something.”

The Soldier frowns. “That’s not fair,” he intones. “You said I am not a prisoner, but you are not one either. You should not allow my presence to prevent you from leaving the house.”

“Buck, that’s not—” the Captain begins to protest, but he quiets and sighs when the Soldier shoots him a look. “Alright, fine,” he concedes, a pout forming on his lips before they reluctantly tug up into a rueful smile. He shakes his head and huffs a laugh then, and the Soldier tilts his head questioningly.

“It’s nothing,” the Captain dismisses. “Just—even after all this time, you’re still lookin’ out for me. You know, you used to give me half your rations, back in the war. The serum increased my metabolism, so I hafta eat a lot more. I didn’t even notice you were doing it until you started dropping weight. Boy, I got so mad—put an end to it right then and there. Pretty sure you still managed to sneak some extra food onto my plate sometimes though—hell, I think you always did that, even before the serum.”

The Captain’s gaze is distant— almost sad, despite his smile-- lost in memories.

The Soldier shifts a little bit, uncomfortable, then clears his throat. “Your friend,” he says, “He sounds like a good man.”

The Captain looks as though he might protest at the way the Soldier refers to James Buchanan Barnes as a different person, but ultimately lets it go. “He was,” he says, gazing at the Soldier seriously. “He still is.”

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

The next morning, the Captain wakes the Soldier up a bit earlier than usual so they can have breakfast together before he heads out. He leaves with a nervous expression and instructions to ‘call if you need anything’. The Soldier decides not to inform him that he doesn’t actually have access to a phone.

The Soldier uses the time alone to take another bath, this time allowing himself to linger in the warm water longer, to bask in the sensation. He takes his time working the soaps into his hair and swirls his hand through the bubbles, watching them dance along the surface of the water. Afterwards, he pulls on his freshly washed unicorn pajama pants and heads out into the kitchen to grab himself a pudding cup.

The Captain bursts through the door not long after, the worried expression on his face shifting to relieved, then sheepish. “Sorry,” he says as he gently kicks the door shut behind him, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “I just… got nervous for some reason. Had to come see if you were okay.”

“I am fine,” the Soldier reports. “I took a bath.”

“I see that,” the Captain says, eyeing where the Soldier’s hair is dripping water all over the hardwood floor. He blows out a breath and shakes his head, one side of his mouth twisting into a smile. “If you’re keeping the long hair, we’re gonna have to get you a hairdryer.”

The Soldier runs a hand over his hair self-consciously. “I like my hair,” he defends.

The Captain quirks a smile, eyes soft. “Yeah, Buck. I do, too.”

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

After that, the Captain starts to leave the house more. He heads out to buy groceries (which is good because they were running low) and resumes his routine of jogging in the morning. The Soldier joins him once or twice, but usually ends up staying home to sleep in.

One day, the Captain returns from his run later than usual, a look of nervous anticipation on his face. “Hey,” he says to the Soldier, who is lounging on the couch watching TV. (He has just found a marvelous show about people making knives. The Soldier likes shows about making stuff, and he likes knives. It’s a perfect fit.) “I bought you some stuff.”

The Soldier sits up more, intrigued. The Captain sits in his armchair and pulls something out of the large bag he is carrying, then hands it to the Soldier. The Soldier inspects it carefully. It’s some type of liquid in a brown glass bottle with a blue label. “Hair oil,” the Captain explains. “It’s supposed to make your hair softer.”

The Soldier blinks and absentmindedly drags a hand through his hair, still clean from the bath he took that morning. “Hair can get softer than this?”

The Captain smiles. “Apparently. I also got you a hairdryer,” the Captain says, pulling out a large box, “but if you don’t like it you can use this instead.”

He holds out an oddly shaped scrap of blue fabric. “It’s called a hair wrap. It dries out your hair better than a towel, supposedly. I got you a new hair brush, too. And last but not least, there’s this spa kit, for your baths. It has a buncha different stuff. I don’t really remember exactly what the lady said, but it’s supposed to be really good.”

The Soldier takes the basket from him, which is loaded up with different bottles and containers. He looks down at it, trying to identify the emotion rising up inside of him. He has never received anything non-mission related before.

“Thank you,” he manages to choke out, and the Captain blushes.

“Aw, don’t worry about it, Buck. There’s uh, there’s one more thing actually.” He reaches into his pocket and hands the Soldier a key.

“For the apartment. I just got it made today. That way you can come and go as you please. Without having to break in through the window, that is. It’s uh, it’s not really a big deal or anything. I mean, it’s just a key. But. Y’know.” He shrugs.

The Soldier stares at the piece of metal in his hand, twisting it back and forth. It’s not just a key. It is a promise of freedom. It is a promise of home. “Hug,” the Soldier says, not looking up from the key.

“Hug?” The Captain repeats. “You—you want a hug?”

The Soldier nods, and the Captain says “Aw, Buck” in a strained voice and then stands. He sits next to the Soldier on the couch and draws him into an embrace. The Soldier goes willingly, wrapping his arms tightly around the Captain and burying his face into his shirt, breathing in the scent of him, the key still clutched in his fist. They stay like that, curled up together on the couch, for a long, long time.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

The hair oil does indeed make his hair softer. He also likes the hair dryer well enough, though it’s usually easier just to put it up in the wrap. The first time the Captain sees him wearing it, combined with the penguin pajamas, he bursts out laughing. The Soldier is too busy admiring the sight to be offended.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

Things go well.

Until they don’t.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter warnings

The Asset sits in a chair. The air around it is cold and still. There is a niggling sensation in the back of its mind. It should not be here. It is supposed to be… somewhere else. Somewhere safe.

It tries to stand but its muscles barely move an inch. It looks down to see its limbs restrained, metal bands wrapping around its chest. One of its arms gleams in the dim light. It is made of metal. No, that isn’t right—it can’t be. How could an arm be metal? That doesn’t—

“солдат,” a voice barks. A man in a bloodstained lab coat stands in front of it. Where did he come from? Has he been there the whole time?

“готов соблюдать.” Who said that? The Asset felt its mouth move but the voice had been unrecognizable. It shakes its head. Tries again. “Where,” it rasps out, “How…” It gazes up desperately at the man in front of him.

The man shakes his head in disappointment, sneers in disgust. “это не работает. протрите это снова.”

“No,” the Asset mutters. “No, please.” Its body shakes in terror, though it does not know why. “I’m sorry. Please.  я тебя умоляю .  Сотрите снова. I’ll be good. Please.” The man does not listen. Metal plates descend upon its face and it barely has time to scream before the whole world lights up in pain. The world is on fire. Its mind is on fire. Its…

No. Not its mind. Its body. The building it is in is on fire and it is too. The Asset blankly stares down at the flames licking up its clothing, feels the agony that comes with it. The bare skin on its right hand is bubbling. The other hand is metal. How is it metal?

“солдат,” a voice barks in its ear. The Asset lifts its flesh hand and feels a device there. It vibrates slightly as the voice continues. “уберайся немедленно. обратно на базу.”

The Asset does not understand the command, but it follows it anyway. It walks through the building, the fire still roiling around it, singeing away its hair. (It likes its hair, something deep inside it says. No. It likes nothing. It cannot like.) The air around it is stifling, the acrid scent of smoke and burning flesh clinging to its nose. There is something niggling at the back of its mind. A memory. It does not have memories.

“Not without you,” it mutters under its breath. It does not understand.

It exits the building to find a man standing on the street, waiting to collect it. The scene changes again. There is a man standing on a street. He should not be here. He should be dead. The Asset knows this, somehow. How does it know this?

“Bucky,” the man says, and he is close enough to touch. “Bucky,” he begs, and his face is bruised, his body littered with gunshots. The Asset wraps a hand around his throat and squeezes, lifts the man off the ground. The hand is metal. Why is it metal?

“Bucky,” the voice says, growing weaker. “Bucky, please.” The plates on the metal arm flex and shift. The man’s legs kick feebly at it. The Asset tightens its grip. All it needs to do is twist its wrist just right—

“ _ Buck _ .”

The Soldier scrambles back, ducks to the floor, scuttles into a corner. In front of him, the Captain collapses into a heap, desperately gasping in shaky breaths, a hand massaging at his throat. “Buck,” he wheezes again, and it’s a terrible sound, awful, and the Soldier covers his ears with his hands and shakes his head.  _ What is going  _ ** _on_ ** _ ? _

He can still feel his flesh burning, can smell it. He pries his eyes open from where they had clenched shut, forces himself to take in the scene around him. He is in the guest bedroom, moonlight glinting off the shiny hardwood floors. Blankets are scattered about, the lamp on the bedside table tipped over, broken. The door is open wide, offering a view of the darkened living room. Near it, the Captain remains crumpled on the floor, still fighting for oxygen.

The Soldier has hurt him. The Soldier has hurt the Captain.

A pathetic whimper escapes his throat. The Captain hears it and struggles to get his hands underneath himself, uses his shaking limbs to push himself up enough to look at the Soldier. His eyes are so big, so blue, as they scan over the Soldier almost desperately. Already, there is a purple ring blooming around his throat. It is shaped like a hand. “Bucky,” he rasps out, and the Soldier runs.

He flies past the Captain and into the bathroom, socks skidding across the floor. The door slams shut behind him with a bang and he fumbles for the lock before collapsing against it, only to scramble up again moments later. He reaches the toilet just in time to empty the contents of his stomach.

He stays there for an indistinguishable amount of time, hunched over the toilet, chest heaving, before he finally forces himself onto his feet. He sways a bit, regains his balance. Takes stock of the situation.

_ (He has hurt the  _ ** _Captain_ ** _ .) _

Punishment. He needs punishment.

He strides to the shower and yanks back the curtain, turns the taps the way the Captain—( _ the  _ ** _Captain_ ** )—showed him how to, so long ago. He adjusts it so that the water is as cold as it can get before climbing under the spray, still fully clothed. The water isn’t as cold as the kind that used to come out of the hose. It isn’t cold enough. He’s shivering, but he had been shivering before he even got in, so that doesn’t mean much.

Slowly, he lowers his body to the floor, where he curls up into a ball, hands clutching at his hair, tugging painfully. The sensation reminds him of the Chair but he doesn’t stop, he can’t stop.

He wishes he could forget.

The sound of the Captain’s choking breaths still rings in his ears. He can still see the desperation in his eyes, feel the metal arm flex as he squeezed.

The metal arm. It was the metal arm that did this.

He feels a surge of anger at the limb. He has no idea when it was given to him, how it came to be, whether it was created with him or added on later. He doesn’t know how it got there, never has, but at this moment, he does know this: he would do anything to get rid of it and all that it stands for. The brand painted in red on the surface, the gears that clank and churn, the pain that radiates outward from where its attached, the weight pulling on his muscles and tugging at his skin. He wants it gone.

He untangles his flesh fingers from his hair and slides them under the collar of his shirt, brings them to the seam where metal meets flesh instead. There he digs them in, drags them down until blood wells at the surface. Before long the water swirling down the drain is tinged pink, but it’s not enough, its not working. It’s never worked—evidence of attempts to claw it off in the past are visible in the patchwork of scars that surround it. But the Soldier has to try, because maybe this time he’ll do better, be stronger, be able to detach this weapon from himself.

“Buck,” the Captain calls, voice hoarse and unbearable to listen to. He thuds at the door, rattles the handle, thuds again when it doesn’t work. “Bucky, let me in. Let me see that you’re alright.”

The Soldier feels himself laugh hysterically. The Captain wants to know if  _ he’s _ alright?  _ Him _ , the one who nearly killed him just moments before?

“I mean it, Buck! Open the door!”

The command laced in his voice is nearly enough to get the Soldier to comply, but the Captain had said it himself: he is not the Soldier’s handler. The Soldier doesn’t have to obey him.

“I’m fine,” the Soldier chokes out instead. “Just leave me alone.”

“Bullshit! If you’re fine then let me see for myself. Please, Bucky. I just need to see you. Please.”

The Soldier shakes his head, even though the Captain can’t see him. He doesn’t want the Captain to see him. He doesn’t deserve to be looked at by the Captain, not anymore.

The sound of the Captain’s hand banging against the door in frustration rings through the apartment. “Fine, be that way. I’m coming in, Buck.” The door bursts open a moment later, the Captain stumbling in after it. His steps draw short as he catches sight of the Soldier. “Oh, Bucky,” he says, voice wrecked.

The Soldier only curls up tighter in response, one hand still tugging at his hair, the other clawing at his skin.

“Stop that, Buck,” the Captain snaps as he rushes to turn off the water. “Stop hurting yourself.”

The water cuts to an abrupt halt, and the Soldier feels a towel being gently laid across his shoulders. The soft weight of it is followed by a hand tugging at his wrist, and the Soldier whimpers but doesn’t dare move.

“Please,” he begs instead, “please don’t touch me.”

The Captain’s hand jerks away as if scalded. “Buck,” he says, buckets of devastation laced into the word. “I’m sorry, Buck.”

The Soldier shakes his head. His voice is small when he speaks. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” the Captain murmurs, “I promise you won’t, Buck. I don’t want you to be hurt either. Please let me take care of you?  _ Please _ ?”

The Soldier sniffles but remains otherwise silent as the Captain’s touch returns, as he gently pulls the Soldier’s hands off his shoulder and out of his hair. The Soldier focuses on remaining still as the Captain gently tugs him out of the shower, as he pulls the Soldier’s drenched clothing off and dresses him in new, soft ones instead. The old clothes fall to the bathroom floor with a wet slap. The Captain gently wraps the Soldier’s hair into his hair wrap and coos at him softly, murmuring praises and apologies.

He doesn’t give the Soldier a shirt, instead leads him into the living room and onto the couch, where he turns on the light before fetching the first aid kit. He dabs ointment onto the wounds and wraps the shoulder in gauze, hissing and grimacing as if he is the one in pain. When he’s done he retrieves the softest blankets in the house and bundles the Soldier up, swaddling him like a baby before sitting on the couch and pulling the shivering Soldier into his arms.

“Shhh,” he soothes, rubbing his hand up and down the Soldier’s back. “It’s alright. I’m sorry, Buck. I’m so sorry. I should have known better than to try to wake you up like that, but you just sounded so scared—”

He cuts off as his voice breaks, and the Soldier shakes his head vehemently. “Don’t.” He tries to spit the word out, but in the end it sounds more like a sob. “Don’t apologize. I almost  _ killed _ you—”

“You didn’t. You didn’t know what you were doing, and you stopped, you didn’t kill me, I’m fine.”

The Soldier just stares at the still-forming bruise wrapped around the Captain’s neck in response, guilt curdling in his gut. The Captain places a finger under the Soldier’s chin and gently tips his head up until his gaze focuses on his face instead.

“That’ll be healed within an hour or two, Buck. No big deal.”

“It  _ is _ ,” the Soldier insists, and the Captain sighs in response.

“Okay, so maybe it is a big deal. But its not the end of the world, Bucky. We can work through this, just like we always do.”

The Soldier wishes he had the Captain’s confidence, his optimism. He tips forward and buries his face back into the Captain’s shoulder miserably.

“We’ll get through this, Buck,” the Captain murmurs. “I promise.”

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

They stay on the couch until the sun peeks over the horizon, bathing the living room in a golden glow. The Captain yawns and stretches, then stands. The bruise on his neck has faded to a sickly green color, dissolving into yellow as the Soldier watches.

“Guess it’s time for breakfast,” the Captain says. “You want some toast?”

The Soldier shakes his head and the Captain frowns. “A smoothie, then? Oatmeal? Some fruit?” His frown only deepens as the Soldier’s head continues to shake. “You’ve gotta eat  _ something _ , Buck.”

The Soldier shakes his head again.

The Captain sighs and disappears into the kitchen. He comes back a few minutes later bearing a shake and a plate of toast, both of which he sets on the coffee table. The Soldier pointedly rolls over and buries his face in the back of the couch. He ignores the Captain’s attempts to cajole him into eating, ignores the rumbling of his own stomach.

The Captain eventually gives up and eats his own breakfast alone, the TV playing “How It’s Made” with the volume on low. He doesn’t leave for his morning run, instead stays in the living room and watches TV or reads. The shake and uneaten plate of toast get whisked away into the kitchen. At lunchtime a strawberry smoothie faces the same fate. So do the multiple pudding cups that the Captain tries to push onto him. The Captain frets and hovers, as he is prone to do, but the Soldier tunes him out. By dinner, the Captain has had enough.

“Why don’t you wanna eat, Buck?” he pries. When he gets no response other than the shake of a head he huffs in frustration. “Well, fine. If you won’t eat, then I won’t either.”

That gets the Soldier’s attention. He spins around from where his face had been shoved into the couch to glare at the Captain.

“Glare all you want, Buck, it ain’t gonna change my mind.” He shoves his plate of pasta further down the coffee table to prove his point and crosses his ridiculous arms over his ridiculous chest.

The Soldier keeps up the glaring for two hundred and ninety-seven seconds. The Captain glares back, jaw jutted out.

The Soldier sighs and sits up and picks up the shake. He gulps it down and glowers as the Captain smiles at him smugly, finally picking up his plate of pasta. The Soldier finishes the shake and moves on to the slices of toast, chewing mechanically. When both their plates are cleared the Captain leans back in his seat. “There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

The Soldier just lies back down and rolls over again. He lifts one arm and makes a hand gesture he has witnessed people on the streets use to express anger. The Captain laughs, and the Soldier can’t fight the small smile that tugs up his lips in response.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

“Come on, Buck, it’s getting late. You’ve gotta go to bed.”

“No.”

The Soldier is sitting up on the couch, still surrounded by blankets, watching infomercials on the TV. The screen is bright in the dark apartment, casting a flickering blue light on the objects in front of it.

“Please, Bucky?”

The Soldier looks up at the Captain blankly, watches the moment his face changes and knows that the man is going to try the same thing he did at dinner.

“Don’t,” the Soldier pleads. “Please don’t make me go to bed. I’m scared—” his voice breaks off and he looks away.

The Captain sighs and rubs a hand down his face, looking as tired as the Soldier feels. “Alright, Buck,” he mumbles, “I won’t make you.”

He stays up with the Soldier for another hour before giving in and retreating to his bedroom. He pats the Soldier on the shoulder as he passes, stifling a yawn. “Night, Buck. Try and get some rest.”

The Soldier stays up all night watching whatever is on the TV, shaking himself awake whenever he starts to feel himself nodding off. By the time the Captain emerges from his room the next morning, the Soldier eyes are bloodshot.

The Captain sighs and shakes his head, then disappears into the kitchen. The Soldier thinks that the Captain has been doing a lot of sighing lately.

The Captain returns carrying two steaming cups of tea, both of which he sets on the coffee table. Then he leaves again to grab the shake and honey toast for the Soldier, and a plate of eggs and bacon for himself.

The tea is better than the Soldier had expected. It too is sweetened with honey, and it warms the Soldier’s throat as he drinks it down.

When both their bellies are full and the dishes have been put away, the Captain scrutinizes the Soldier. For the first time in over a month the Soldier feels the need to shrink away from the gaze, but then the Captain smiles, little crinkles forming around his eyes. “You know,” he says, “You’ve had the hair wrap on this whole time.”

The Soldier frowns and lifts his flesh fingers to his head, surprised when they make contact with fabric. He carefully unwinds the wrap and sets it aside, then turns back to the Captain. The way the crinkles around the Captain’s eyes grow more pronounced leads the Soldier to believe that his hair must look strange.

“Wow. That sure is quite the look, Buck. Want me to brush that out for you?”

The Soldier chews on his lip. He should say no. He doesn’t deserve to be treated gently after what he did.

But then the Captain makes his eyes all big and says “Please, Bucky?” and the Soldier’s defenses crumple like a napkin. He nods hesitantly and the Captain beams, then runs to grab the brush from the bathroom.

When he comes back he sits sideways on the couch with his legs crossed and gestures for the Soldier to do the same but facing away. He gathers up the Soldier’s hair and starts pulling the brush through, starting at the bottom and working his way up. The tangles slowly disappear and the bristles glide through the strands, the repetitive motion combined with the warm tea in his belly forcing the Soldier into a state of relaxation.

It only gets worse when the Captain switches to using his fingers instead. Before long the Soldier has melted into a putty-like substance, his head pillowed in the Captain’s lap as he massages the Soldier’s scalp.

“Good, Buck,” the Captain murmurs. “Just relax for a bit.”

The Soldier can feel his eyelids start to droop. He’s not supposed to let them, he thinks. He’s supposed to stay awake for some reason, he just can’t remember why. He tries to, but the call of sleep is too strong, and eventually the Soldier succumbs to exhaustion.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

The Soldier awakens three hours later with a scream, the Captain standing a few feet away and wringing his hands fretfully. The door to the bathroom is still damaged, so the Soldier locks himself in the closet instead. This time the Captain doesn’t break down the door, just sits in front of it and mutters soothing words and reassurances. When the Soldier finally slinks out over an hour later, red eyed and sniffling, the Captain’s expression hardens.

“That’s it,” he declares. “I’m calling in reinforcements.”

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

Reinforcements come in the form of Sam Wilson, who sits in the Captain’s armchair and sips at the coffee that has been given to him.

“Do you know who I am?”

The Soldier nods, not looking up from his lap. “Sam Wilson. You brought the shakes.”

“That’s right, but you can just call me Sam. Do you know why I’m here?”

The Soldier’s face twists. “Because I hurt the Captain.”

“Buck—” the Captain starts to interrupt from his spot on the couch next to the Soldier, but Sam makes some kind of gesture to silence him.

“Not exactly. I mean, that is part of it, yes, but that’s not the real reason I’m here.” He pauses until the Soldier glances up at him, tries to catch the Soldier’s eye. When he fails he continues anyway. “I’m here because you’ve been hurting yourself. Can you tell me about that?”

“It was just the once,” the Soldier mumbles, “when I was trying to get the arm off.”

Sam purses his lips, nods. “Alright. We’re gonna have to talk more about your feelings regarding your arm later. What about the rest? The cold shower—which according to Steve you usually hate—the not eating, not sleeping, staying on the couch for days, locking yourself in the closet?”

“Most of those were punishments.”

“And who assigned these punishments? Because I know it wasn’t Steve.”

The Soldier shakes his head. “I did.”

“Why?”

The question is delivered flatly, almost as a challenge, and the Soldier blinks in surprise. “Because I hurt the Captain. I need to be punished.”

Sam tilts his head. “And what does punishing yourself accomplish? Does it undo the damage? Make the nightmares go away? Make Steve feel better? Make  _ yourself _ feel better?”

The Soldier hunches his shoulders and shakes his head miserably. “No.”

“No,” Sam repeats. “In fact, if I had to guess, I’d bet that punishing yourself makes the both or you feel a hell of a lot worse, isn’t that right?”

The Soldier glances at the Captain who offers him a watery smile of encouragement, remembers the pain that had been written across his face when he had found the Soldier in the shower. “Yes,” the Soldier croaks.

Sam shrugs. “So why punish yourself then?”

“The Asset needs to be punished for misbehaving.”

“Ah, but see, you aren’t the Asset anymore. And you sure as hell aren’t with Hydra anymore either. That means that you’re responsible for your own actions now, and you gotta find a way to deal with your mistakes just like the rest of us.”

The Soldier remains silent, doubt and guilt swirling through his mind, and Sam softens his voice.

“Look, if you mess up, take responsibility for it. Apologize, make amends, and try not to do it again. There’s no reason to dwell on it or beat yourself up over it—especially in your case, since you seem to take the ‘beating yourself up’ part literally.”

He makes it sound so simple, so straightforward. The Soldier relays this to Sam, and Sam laughs in response.

“It’s not. It’s hard as hell, but most things worth doing in life are. That said… in this case I really don’t think that what happened was your fault.”

The Soldier opens his mouth to object, but Sam shakes his head and raises a hand to stop him.

“No, I know, but listen. You don’t have to like what I’m saying, or even agree with it, but lemme tell you what I think. I think you’ve been through a lot of shit. I think that you reacted badly to being woken up from a nightmare—which happens to almost everyone at some point—and hurt someone you love in the process. And I think that the only people we can blame for that is all those fuckers at Hydra who put you through this in the first place. The fact that you lashed out when you weren’t even conscious doesn’t make you a bad person, it makes you human.” There is silence for a moment before Sam speaks again. “Bottom line is: fuck Hydra. C’mon, say it with me.”

That manages to startle a bark of laughter out of the Soldier, and he smiles softly. “Fuck Hydra,” he repeats, and even just saying those words feels like a rebellion, like vindication.

Sam grins at him. “Attaboy. Now, you said  _ most _ of those things were punishments. Which of them aren’t?”

The Soldier’s smile drains from his face. “The not sleeping. Well, that is also a punishment, a little bit,” the Soldier admits. “But mostly… I do not want to sleep. I am scared. It doesn’t feel…safe, anymore.”

The Soldier’s skin heats as he says this, as he admits this weakness. “Hey, that’s alright, you don’t need to feel ashamed for sharing that,” Sam says. “What do we need to do to make it so you feel safe sleeping again?”

“Restrain me. Put me in cryo.”

The Captain blanches, and Sam shakes his head. “That ain’t gonna happen. Think of something else.”

The Soldier scrunches his eyebrows down, lips tugging into a frown. “Can we take off the arm?” he asks petulantly, already knowing the answer.

“Nope,” Sam says. The Soldier sighs. “How about this? Steve, can you go grab me a paper and a pen?”

Steve rushes to go retrieve the items, then comes back and hands a notepad and the pen to Sam. “Cool, thanks. So, what we’re gonna do is make a list of stuff you can try that might help. Then you can go through this list and figure out what works.”

Together, they all work on compiling the list. Most of the suggestions come from Sam, with the Captain and the Soldier occasionally offering input. 

  1. Develop a relaxing nightly routine
  2. Write down feelings and memories in a journal
  3. Try a nightlight
  4. Exercise
  5. Try yoga
  6. Imagine or write a different ending to the nightmare
  7. Spray lavender on the pillow
  8. Drink tea
  9. Get a stuffed animal
  10. Try a noise machine

The Captain rips out a piece of paper from the notepad and makes his own list of stuff he needs to buy.

“Don’t be afraid to write down anything else you think of. And another thing—give it time. Most of these things won’t fix the problem immediately. The goal is to work on getting better a little bit at a time,” Sam says.

The Soldier nods. Already, he feels a bit better about the situation. He has a mission, and he has a mission plan, and he has two mission assists to help him. “Thank you,” he says, and Sam smiles.

“Happy to help. Has anything else been bugging you? Have you got any questions, been experiencing any pain?”

The Soldier hesitates. “I get headaches,” he admits.

“When?”

“It depends. They used to happen a lot when I was researching the Captain. Sometimes I get them just from looking at him.”

Sam shakes his head, expression serious. “Man, I’ll be the first to admit that Steve’s got an ugly mug, but I don’t think it’s quite bad enough to give someone a headache.”

“Hey!” the Captain protests, and the Soldier is inclined to agree.

“He isn’t ugly. He’s beautiful.”

The Captain blushes bright red but smiles smugly. “Hear that, Sam? I’m  _ beautiful _ .”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam says, rolling his eyes. “Whatever. But for real—that might actually be a good sign. That, combined with the whole having nightmares thing, might mean your brain is healing and working on getting some of your memories back.”

The Captain sits straight up and looks at the Soldier with eyes full of hope. Sam points an accusing finger at him. “Don’t give him that look. Even without saying anything, you’re putting way too much pressure on the guy. We don’t know if it’s even possible for him to get  _ any _ memories back; that was just my guess, and I’m not a psychologist.”

The Captain blushes again, looking properly chastised. “You’re right,” he admits. “I’m sorry, Buck. I’ll try to work on that.”

“That’s right, you will,” Sam says, an undercurrent to his voice that is almost threatening. “Because you’re gonna care about him just the same even if he never remembers a single thing, isn’t that right, Steve?”

“Of course!” the Captain says defensively. “Of course I’d still care about him, Sam, don’t even say that.”

Sam gestures to the Soldier who is blinking surprise, lips parted. “Really?” he asks, voice small and vulnerable in a way he hates. The Captain pales in response.

“Of course, Bucky! You—I love you, Buck, no matter what you remember, you have to know that,” the Captain babbles, and Sam clears his throat. Both the Soldier and the Captain look at him in surprise, having nearly forgotten he was there at all.

“Alright, I’m gonna leave you two to talk about that. Unless you’ve got anything else to say, Barnes?”

The Soldier thinks about what Sam had said earlier and nods, bites at his lower lip. “I’m sorry I broke your wings. And kicked you off a Helicarrier.”

Sam blinks in surprise, then laughs. “Aw, man, don’t even worry about it! You weren’t exactly in the best state of mind back then, and besides, Stark’s building me a new, better set of wings. We’re all good.” He pauses then inclines his head. “Just don’t do it again, though, because that was scary as fuck.”’

The Soldier nods solemnly. “I promise.”

“Glad we’re on the same page,” Sam says, standing up from his seat. “On that note, I’m gonna get going.” He waves away Steve’s attempts to stand. “Nuh-uh, I can see myself out. You get talking, mister. And keep me updated.” He waves as he exits, and once the door has clicked shut behind him the apartment suddenly seems uncomfortably silent. Sam’s cup of coffee sits abandoned on the table, having gone cold long ago.

The Captain squirms in his seat as they just sit there for a bit, then finally lets out an explosive sigh. “Buck…” he starts, only to clamp his mouth shut.

The Soldier waits, looking at him expectantly, but the Captain just keeps his lips pressed together, a look of consternation on his face. “Captain,” the Soldier parrots, and the man’s face scrunches up in distaste.

“Don’t call me that, Buck,” he complains, and the Soldier blinks in response.

“What do I call you then?”

The Captain quirks an eyebrow at him. “How about ‘Steve’?”

“Steve,” the Soldier repeats slowly, testing the word out in his mouth. It feels familiar on his tongue, as though he’s uttered the name a thousand times.

The Captain— _ Steve _ —blinks rapidly, suddenly looking as though he’s been hit upside the head. “Steve?” the Soldier tries again, this time with concern lacing his tone.

Steve’s expression crumples and he shakes his head before burying his face in his hands. “Fuck,” he says, voice muffled, and the Soldier stares at him in alarm, wondering what went wrong, what he can do to fix it. “Fuck, Bucky, I’m sorry just—” He finally takes his face out of his hands and looks at the Soldier, tears in his eyes but a smile on his lips. “I didn’t realize—I just… Bucky, that’s the first time I’ve heard you say my name in seventy years. The last time you said it you were—” he cuts himself off, shakes his head again.

The Soldier blinks, heart twisting at the pain on Steve’s face. The Soldier thinks that in a perfect world, Steve would never feel anything but happiness. And righteousness, maybe, because Steve wouldn’t be himself without that. “Steve,” the Soldier coos, voice soft. “It’s alright, Stevie.”

He isn’t sure where the nickname comes from, but Steve sobs at the sound of it, and the Soldier finally gives in and pulls him into his arms. Steve practically melts into the embrace, his breaths hiccupping, and the Soldier feels a mixture of fondness and protectiveness well up deep inside him. This is the first time in his memory that he’s been the one offering comfort, not receiving it, but somehow the action feels as familiar as a rifle in his hands. He instinctively knows just how to rub his hands up and down Steve’s broad shoulders, how to pitch his voice just right so that it sounds soothing instead of grating.

Steve sobs again and the Soldier shushes him gently, tightening his grip. “It’s alright, Stevie,” he repeats, “I’m here. I’ve gotcha.”

Steve snuffles and clings on tighter, wiping snot and tears all over the Soldier’s shirt. The Soldier doesn’t mind, just holds him through it until Steve’s breath evens out a bit more. Working on a hunch, the Soldier experimentally rubs his hand through Steve’s soft golden hair, the way he knows he likes himself. It works, the man in his arms relaxes even further, practically curled up on the Soldier’s lap at this point.

“Buck,” he says once the tears have slowed, “Bucky, you’ve gotta know that I love you. You’re family—the only family I’ve got left at this point. It doesn’t matter if you never get your memories back or if you never start using your old name again. None of that matters, as long as you’re here. You’re still family no matter what. You hafta know that, Buck. Tell me you know that.” His voice is desperate, pleading, and now the Soldier is the one with tears in his eyes.

“I know, Stevie,” he promises, “I know that now. And…” the Soldier hesitates, words caught in his throat. He pushes them out. “I am not sure what love feels like. Not sure I’m programmed to be capable of feeling it. But… I imagine that if I can feel it, it’d feel a lot like what I feel for you. If I had a family, you’d be it.”

Steve’s face crumples and he shoves his face back into to the Soldier’s chest. Eventually, though, he pulls back, roughly wipes away the tears with his hands and chokes out a weak laugh. “I swear, I’ve cried more in the past year than I have in my entire lifetime.”

The Soldier frowns, concerned, but Steve waves the expression away. “That’s not a bad thing, Buck. It’s… it’s good, actually. It feels nice to have someone to lean on, to not have to bottle everything up all the time.”

The Soldier nods in understanding. Emotions are a tricky, complicated mess, but the Soldier would rather have them than go back to the blankness from before. It’s oddly nice, to be able to cry, to feel sadness, to feel anger. Not fun, no, but… nice.

“You’re turnin’ me into a sap,” Steve accuses, but there’s a smile in his eyes that the Soldier can’t help but reflect back.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

Steve brings out his laptop and together they look for the stuff that they and Sam had decided on, as well as a few other things. Steve mostly lets the Soldier pick out what he wants by himself, only helping to answer questions and offering commentary. The hardest thing to find is the right stuffed animal. There are so many options, so many choices, that the Soldier nearly becomes overwhelmed.

Research. He needs to do research. The Soldier is scanning through an article titled “World’s Cutest Cuddle Buddies” when he sees it.

Its oddly shaped, a bit like an oval but somehow rounder. The fabric looks soft and plush, very squeezable if the Soldier had to guess. And it is wearing a Captain America costume. There’s even a little shield on its back.

“Steve,” the Soldier says urgently.

Steve looks up from the book he is reading in concern, his eyes first landing on the Soldier, then on the screen that the Soldier’s gaze is still fixated on. Steve slaps a hand over his face and groans. “Oh no,” he complains, “is that one of those zoom-zoom things Tony was going on about?”

“Tsum-tsum,” the Soldier corrects absentmindedly, already clicking on the link that will take him to Amazon. It is priced at seventy dollars.

Steve’s mouth drops open. His face is slowly turning into the color of a strawberry. “Bucky,” he whines. “Come on, you can’t seriously be thinking of buying one!”

The Soldier widens his eyes slightly and juts out his bottom lip before turning to Steve, adopting his best pleading expression. “Why not?” he asks, layering as much disappointment into the question as possible.

“You—Buck, it’s—” Steve sputters, hands flailing ridiculously. He looks at the Soldier helplessly. The Soldier experimentally pouts out his lip a bit more. He can see the exact moment Steve cracks. “I mean, you can get it if you want, but—”

“I can?” His voice sounds high-pitched, hopeful, and only part of it is an act. It is only due to decades of training that the Soldier is able to keep his lips from twitching up.

Steve sighs; a deep, defeated sound. “Sure, Buck,” he relents. “Go ahead and get it.”

The Soldier grins and happily adds the item to the cart, dropping the act completely. He glances back up to see Steve gaping at him.

“You did that on purpose!” Steve accuses. This time the expression the Soldier adopts is innocent, but Steve isn’t fooled. “You little brat!” he exclaims, but he’s grinning, and he doesn’t tell the Soldier to delete the toy from the list.

By the time the Soldier is satisfied with the contents of the virtual cart, the total at the bottom reads one thousand and seventy three dollars. Some small part of him frets and worries about the cost, but Steve reassures him that he has plenty of money to spare, and that he doesn’t mind spending it on this.

“I like spoiling you,” Steve admits softly, cheeks pink.

The Soldier nods seriously. “I liked being spoiled, I think.”

Steve grins at him. “Well, there we go. We’re a perfect match.”

The Soldier couldn’t agree more.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

The Soldier’s mind takes mercy on him, and despite his worrying, he is able to sleep through that night uninterrupted. Steve beams at him the following morning, looking both relieved and proud. They celebrate with pancakes, which Steve assures the Soldier he will love.

He is correct. The Soldier tests out different toppings until he finally discovers the perfect combination: whipped crème topped with syrup and sprinkled with blueberries. The Soldier devours five before Steve confiscates his plate.

“That’s enough, Buck, you’re gonna make yourself sick,” he chides, but there is fondness shining in his eyes that the Soldier attempts to exploit by pouting. It doesn’t work. “Nuh-uh, I’m not falling for that again,” Steve laughs. “You can have more for lunch.”

That appeases the Soldier somewhat, though he does make a show of sulking for a bit. Steve takes pity on him and offers to brush his hair to make up for it, which is nice. The Soldier doesn’t think he will ever get enough of Steve’s gentle touch, of the near-reverent way he treats both the Soldier’s hair, and the Soldier himself.

Hours later they are both sprawled out on the couch, the Soldier’s head pillowed in Steve’s lap as they watch another episode of the knife-making show. Steve’s phone pings on the coffee table and he leans forward to grab it, the Soldier grumbling as the movement jostles him. Steve pats him on the head apologetically as he checks his phone.

“Says here that I’ve got a package downstairs,” he says, quirking an eyebrow with a smile. “Any idea what that might be?”

The Soldier sits straight up, narrowly avoiding headbutting Steve’s face in the process. “My stuff!”

“Want me to head down there and get it right now?”

“Yes,” the Soldier declares, then tacks on a “Please” when Steve gives him a look.

Steve’s eyes crinkle and he shakes his head in exasperation. “Be right back,” he says, standing up.

When Steve returns the Soldier takes the box from him eagerly, surprised by its size and weight.

“I think they just package everything together,” Steve explains, and the Soldier nods in agreement. That would make sense.

He wastes no time in opening it, using one of the knives he has on him to cut away the tape. Steve blinks at him. “Where the hell do you even keep that?” he asks, gesturing to the knife. “You’re wearing pajamas!”

The Soldier ignores him in favor of rummaging through the box, looking for one thing in particular. His hand makes contact with something soft and he tugs, freeing it from the pile of other products. It’s sealed in a plastic film which the Soldier carefully cuts away, revealing his prize underneath.

Steve groans when he realizes what it is. “Oh my god, it’s even worse in real life.”

The Soldier grins down at the plushie in his arms with satisfaction. It’s larger than he expected, nearly the size of his torso, the perfect size for hugging. The fabric is just as soft as he imagined it to be, and the face is even cuter. He squishes it to his chest experimentally and the material compresses easily before bouncing back when he loosens his grip. “He’s perfect,” he declares. “I shall name him Captain.”

“I thought I was Captain!” Steve protests. The Soldier silences him with a look.

“You were, but now you’re Steve. He gets to be Captain instead.”

Together they sort through the rest of the box. The collection of teas goes in the kitchen cabinet, the yoga mat in a corner of the living room, and the scented ‘sleepy lotion’ in the bathroom. The rest gets carted off to the guest bedroom.

The Soldier puts everything exactly where he wants, right down to the plushie on his bed and the lavender spray on the bedside table. The journal gets positioned on a relatively clear spot of the desk, along with both a pencil and pen. The Soldier looks towards Steve expectantly, wanting to gauge his thoughts on the set up, only to see him frowning.

“What?” the Soldier asks. Did he do something wrong? Should he place the items differently?

Steve frowns a bit more. “Nothing. I was just thinking… this is supposed to be  _ your _ room, and instead you’ve got all my junk clogging it up,” he says, gesturing at the cluttered desk.

The Soldier blinks. “This is  _ my _ room?” he repeats.

“Well, yeah. Who’s else would it be?”

The Soldier shrugs his shoulders. “I thought that this was the guest room.”

“It  _ was _ ,” Steve agrees, “but it’s yours now, since you’re here to stay.” Steve purses his lips, expression growing determined. “See, that’s exactly the problem. This space should feel like your own.” He shakes his head. “We’re gonna have to fix that.”

The Soldier would argue that they don’t need to do anything, that the room is fine as it is, but he can already tell by the look on Steve’s face that that would be a losing battle. Instead he sighs. “How?”

“Well, I’m gonna start by clearing all my old stuff outta here. We should get you some more furniture, too. A dresser, maybe a bookshelf. Oh, and I bet a rug would be nice. Maybe some new drapes? Do you wanna repaint the walls, maybe pick a different color?”

The Soldier shakes his head, amused despite himself at Steve’s ramblings. “The color they are now is acceptable,” he says. And it is—the room is painted a navy-blue color that is pleasing to the eye. “Steve,” the Soldier tries, “We don’t need to do all of that. I am happy enough to have a room at all.”

Steve squares his jaw, just as the Soldier knew he would. “We don’t  _ need _ to,” he allows, “But I  _ want _ to. Let me give you a home, Buck.”

Silently, the Soldier thinks that he already has a home.  _ Steve _ is his home.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

Steve relocates everything of his that was on or in the desk to his own room, then brings out the laptop again. They order a plush looking gray rug, a small wooden dresser, and a bookshelf. The Soldier points out that he doesn’t have any books.

“We’ll fix that,” Steve says. “And besides, you can put other stuff on it too. Like little decorations and stuff.”

The Soldier is still skeptical that all of this is necessary, but decides against saying anything. Steve seems to be enjoying himself, and that’s enough for the Soldier.

The rest of the day passes slowly. The Soldier tries some yoga, following the instructions he had found on the internet. The activity causes a pleasing burn in his muscles, stretching them after weeks of minimal activity. It also proves to be quite calming. Steve watches him from his armchair, not even pretending to read the book in his hands. It makes the Soldier smile.

That night, the Soldier diligently sprays his pillow and turns on the sound machine, setting it to play the sound of ocean waves. He also angles the alarm clock to face his bed—it’s a strange one, large and round, designed to emit bright light as well as sound. Steve figured out how to connect it to Bluetooth, so that should he hear the Soldier having a nightmare, he can turn it on from outside the room and hopefully wake him up. The sounds are all gentle and soothing, not at all like the grating noise of a typical alarm clock, which means it won’t be too jarring. The ‘Sleepy Lotion’ has already been applied to his skin, the scent strong but not overpowering. He is as prepared as he can be.

Steve pokes his head in as the Soldier is burrowing under the blankets, Captain snuggled securely in his arms. “All set?”

The Soldier nods, and Steve smiles gently at him. “Good. Well, good night, I guess. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Good night,” the Soldier replies. 

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

And it is. Once again, the Soldier sleeps soundly, only waking once or twice but not from nightmares. When morning comes he’s still clutching onto Captain. Smiling, he sets the toy onto the bed and taps its head as a reward for keeping the nightmares at bay.

“So,” Steve says over breakfast, which unfortunately consists of oatmeal, not pancakes. “How would you feel about inviting Sam over for lunch? As a thank you for his help.”

“Good,” the Soldier says, and Steve smiles at him.

“Good,” he repeats. “I’ll text him after my run, see what he says. What should we make for him?”

“Pancakes,” the Soldier says automatically. “And a smoothie. And apple slices with caramel.”

Steve’s face twists in amusement in response, and he shakes his head in exasperation but says “Sure, Buck, I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.”

The Soldier takes a quick bath while Steve is out, then pulls out Steve’s laptop, which Steve had said he could use whenever he wanted. He pulls up the Google and types in “how to say thank you”.

He reads the results carefully. He doesn’t have any money, so he cannot buy Sam a gift or flowers. But, he can pick some flowers from the park, and he can make a thank you card.

He starts with the card. The Internet provides him with pictures of what they are supposed to look like, and he looks through them until he finds one that looks suitable and not too difficult. He takes some nice paper and a pack of markers from Steve’s room, then lays them out on the dining room table. He is disappointed to find that his handwriting is shaky from disuse. He practices on a sheet of paper until it looks somewhat acceptable, then moves onto the actual making of the card.

The paper is folded carefully after being lined up just right. He writes the words ‘Thank You’ on the front painstakingly slowly to ensure that no mistakes are made. Then he draws the little ring of leaves around them. They don’t look quite as good as the ones on the picture, but they are still suitable.

On the inside he writes a simple ‘Thanks for the help’, then adds ‘from the Soldier’ at the bottom. He hesitates, then hastily tacks on ‘and Steve’.

He holds it up to the light to scrutinize it, then nods in satisfaction. It is acceptable. He goes to his room and pulls on his jeans, a t-shirt, and his red jacket, then untwists his hair from the wrap and makes sure he has his key in his pocket before heading out.

He finds the perfect patch of wildflowers in the same park Steve usually runs in. He carefully selects the best ones, pulling them at the stem to remove them from the dirt. As he works, he happens to notice Steve run by on the path near him.

The Soldier waves, and watches Steve wave back and keep going for a few yards only to stop abruptly. He turns around and looks back at the Soldier, who waves again. Steve grins and jogs over, eyeing the Soldier where he is still crouched in the grass.

“What are you doing, Buck?”

“I am collecting flowers to give to Sam,” he reports.

Steve shakes his head, amusement on clearly written on his face. “There are shops for that, you know.”

“The Internet informed me of that, but I have no money.” The Soldier picks out the last flower, a large dandelion, before standing.

Steve frowns at him. “Remind me to give you some when we get home. Ready to head back?”

The Soldier nods and they walk back to the apartment together, the bundle of flowers in hand. Steve tells him about a dog that he stopped to play with earlier, using grand hand gestures to illustrate his points. “He was huge, Buck,” he’s saying, “I didn’t even know dogs could be that big.”

The Soldier looks over at him fondly, pleased by the excited look on Steve’s face. It is what some might refer to as ‘adorable’. The sight causes a strange clenching sensation in his chest.

Steve’s phone pings just as they reenter the apartment. “Sam says he’ll be here at eleven,” he informs.

“That is acceptable.”

The Soldier makes the smoothies while Steve does the pancakes, then moves onto slicing up the apples. They finish moving everything to the table just in time, the buzzer announcing Sam’s arrival. The Soldier waits patiently by the door while he and Steve greet each other. When Sam finally turns to him, he thrusts out the flowers and card.

“These are for you.”

Sam blinks and takes the items gingerly, as though cautious of them. He opens up the card and reads the inside, then smiles. “That’s real nice of you, Barnes.”

“Yes,” the Soldier agrees. “Also, there is food.”

Sam eyes the selection laid out with raised eyebrows, and Steve grins at him. “These are some of Bucky’s favorites. I guess he wants you to experience them too.”

The Soldier nods. “These are very good,” he intones. “You will enjoy them.”

Sam shakes his head, grinning. “I’m impressed. You should be proud of yourself, Barnes, and Steve should be too.”

“I am,” Steve confirms, looking at the Soldier softly.

The Soldier preens under the attention.

They work their way through the mountain of pancakes and the smoothies, Sam and Steve making conversation while the Soldier listens and focuses on fixing his toppings just right. Afterwards, the Soldier eagerly invites Sam to take a look at his room, showing off the noise machine and the alarm, and everything else they bought. Sam laughs so hard upon seeing Captain that the Soldier worries for his health.

“You did real good, Barnes,” he praises, eyes sweeping around the room. He catches sight of the nightlight, shaped like a rocket, and smiles. “Cute,” he remarks.

The Soldier scowls at the nightlight in response. “Thank you,” he says anyway, because being polite is important.

Sam quirks an eyebrow in confusion and Steve smiles at him. “He’s a bit upset because the one he really wanted was out of stock,” he explains.

“It was supposed to project stars onto the ceiling,” the Soldier laments. “I could have had stars in my room.”

“Ever hear of glow in the dark stars?” Sam asks.

The Soldier tilts his head. “Don’t all stars glow in the dark?”

Sam snorts. “Real funny, wise guy. I’m talking about the little plastic ones that you can stick to stuff. My room was covered in them when I was a kid.” As he talks he pulls out his phone, tapping something into the screen. He clicks on something, then turns the phone so the Soldier can see the screen. “Like these.”

The Soldier stares at the image with wide eyes, then turns to Steve. “I need them,” he declares, and Sam laughs.

“We can order some after Sam leaves,” Steve promises.

“Speaking of which,” Sam says, checking the time, “I should get going. I’ve got a thing with the VA in thirty minutes.”

Steve frowns. “It’s your day off,” he protests, but Sam just shrugs.

“They need some extra hands, and I don’t mind coming in for a bit. Thanks again for inviting me over and doing all this. I had a good time.”

The Soldier makes sure Sam doesn’t forget the card or flowers when he leaves, then turns to Steve the instant the door clicks shut. “Stars,” he says.

Steve rolls his eyes with a smile. “Go grab the laptop,” he instructs, and the Soldier rushes to comply.

They order three packs of stars and another set that includes planets. Like the last order, they arrive the very next day, and the Soldier wastes no time in bringing them to his room and mapping out the perfect positions. He places the stars and planets all around the ceiling and adds a few more scattered on the upper parts of the walls. Between them and the dark blue paint, his room almost looks like the night sky, if a somewhat unrealistic one.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

The furniture arrives two days later, brought in an assembled by two men. The Soldier tenses at the presence of two strangers in his home, in his space, but Steve stays near him the whole time and lays a comforting hand on his shoulder when needed.

Once the men are gone and the furniture is set up, he and Steve troop back into the room. The Soldier digs his toes into the plush rug experimentally, feeling it squish beneath his feet. They move the meager collection of clothes the Soldier has accumulated into the dresser, jackets and shirts in one drawer, pants, socks, and briefs in the next, and the pajamas in another. The book he fished out of the dumpster so long ago sits alone on the bookshelf. Steve frowns at it, but says nothing.

Altogether, the Soldier’s belongings take up so little space that its nearly pathetic. But they are still his, and they have a space now, a permanent one. They are stored away or presented proudly, no longer shoved into a well-worn backpack. They have a home, and he does too.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

A nightmare does come eventually, of course. But this time, the Soldier wakes up to a warm light shining nearby, an expanse of stars sprinkled across his field of vision, the sounds of the ocean in his ears, and a soft Captain clenched tight in his arms. It’s so jarringly different than any space he’d ever been in while with Hydra that the scream dies in his throat along with his fear.

He slumps back against the pillows in relief, and it’s only when he manages to get his throat to cooperate enough to call out “I’m okay” that Steve comes bursting in from where he had been lurking outside the door. 

“Are you alright?” he asks worriedly, hands fluttering around the Soldier’s head but holding back from making contact yet.

The Soldier leans into the touch and relaxes further as Steve’s hands run through his hair then slide down over his neck and arms, as through checking for an injury that he can bandage up and kiss better. “I’m fine,” the Soldier croaks, voice hoarse from screaming, and this time he  _ means it. _ “I’m fine.”

Steve slumps with relief, then clambers onto the bed to pull the Soldier into a tight hug. The Soldier laughs as Steve snuggles up to him, burrowing into his arms. “Hey,” he says seriously, “That’s Captain’s job.”

Steve pulls back enough to blink up at him incredulously. “Did you just make a joke?”

One side of the Soldier’s lips twitches up. “Possibly,” he admits, and Steve huffs out a breath.

“Tell Captain he can get lost. This was my job first.”

The Soldier laughs, a small, raspy thing, but it still manages to make Steve smile proudly. Steve stays in his arms for as long as he can before he gently detaches himself to go make some tea. They drink it sitting on the sofa, the Soldier scribbling down what he can remember from the nightmare into his journal the way Sam told him to. Then he flips to the next page and writes it again, but this time changes it so that it ends with Steve bursting in and saving him before Hydra can re-scramble his brains.

Eventually their eyes start to droop and their mouths start to yawn, and both of them decide they have calmed down enough to attempt sleep again. Steve goes as far as to tuck the Soldier in, smoothing a hand over his hair and huffing at the sight of the Captain in his grasp. “Sleep tight, Buck. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

The Soldier’s brows furrow. “There are bugs?” he asks, and Steve smiles at him.

“It’s an expression. See you in the morning, Buck.”

“See you,” the Soldier echoes back sleepily, watching Steve click the door shut behind himself. The Soldier bundles Captain closer to his chest and starts to believe for the first time that maybe Steve was right.

Maybe they can get through this.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for violence and self-harm.


	6. Chapter 6

Spring melts into summer—first slowly, then all at once, a heat wave blanketing the city and smothering all of its inhabitants. For some reason the Soldier cannot comprehend why Steve refuses to give up on his morning runs, instead just heads out earlier in an attempt to beat the sun. Sometimes it works, other times he comes home sweating and smelling so bad that the Soldier is tempted to push him into the bathtub.

The bathtub is where the Soldier himself spends the majority of his time, lurking in the cool water to get some relief from the stifling heat. The amount of smoothies he and Steve go through on a daily basis is alarming.

One particularly hot afternoon finds the two of them sprawled out on the cool hardwood floor, a fan positioned to blow warm air over their skin. 

“Man,” Steve groans, wiping a wet towel at his brow, “I wish we had ice cream.”

“What is ‘ice cream’?”

Steve’s head jerks up from the floor to stare at the Soldier in shock. “You don’t remember ice cream?”

The Soldier sifts through his memories and gets brief glimpses of sticky hands illuminated by hot sunlight, something sweet and cool on his tongue. With them comes a sharp headache, and the Soldier shakes his head to clear it away. “Only vaguely,” he reports, and Steve unpeels his sweaty skin from the floor.

“Wait right there,” he instructs, then he shoves on his shoes and walks right out the door.

Perturbed, the Soldier allows his head to drop back down and stares up at the ceiling. Steve returns barely fifteen minutes later, a grocery bag in hand. The Soldier sits up and watches with curiosity as he pulls out three cartons and lines them up on the counter.

“I got strawberry, chocolate, and vanilla, so that you can try all the flavors at once,” Steve explains, pulling down some small bowls from the cabinet and setting them besides the cartons. He pauses as he rifles through a drawer, then tilts his head. “Well, okay, I guess there’s actually way more flavors than that, but these are the classics.”

The Soldier finally rises from the floor and wanders over, intrigued. He watches Steve use a strange looking tool to scoop out the ice cream, filling three small bowls with each type. When he’s done he pushes the collection of bowls over to the Soldier, then hands him a small spoon. “Here, try some of each.”

He does, selecting the chocolate one first, eyes widening as the flavor hits his tongue. “Good, huh?” Steve says, smiling at him. “Try the next one.”

The vanilla flavor is also nice, and the strawberry tastes almost like a smoothie but different— sweeter and creamier. The Soldier moans around the spoon in his mouth.

“Is that one your favorite?” Steve asks, looking surprised, and the Soldier shakes his head.

“The chocolate one,” he says. “But this one is almost as good. Almost.”

Steve beams and puffs out his chest. “Ha! I knew it would be chocolate! I’m more of a vanilla guy myself, but you’ve always gone for chocolate.”

“You are boring,” the Soldier declares.

Steve narrows his eyes at him. “Watch it, mister, or I’ll take your ice cream away.”

The Soldier snatches the bowl of chocolate off the counter and clutches it to his chest protectively. “You would not,” he says, but there is a hint of uncertainty in his voice because Steve is very stubborn and maybe he _ would _.

“Yeah, probably not,” Steve admits with a frown. “I can never say no to you. How about you take the chocolate, I take the vanilla, and we split the strawberry.”

The Soldier nods. “Acceptable.”

Steve plows through his bowl like he’s trying to win a race, but the Soldier takes his time, savoring the flavor and the icy goodness. He frowns in concern when Steve groans and clutches his head.

“Are you okay?” His voice is alarmed. What if the vanilla ice cream had been poisoned?

“I’m fine, Buck,” Steve reassures, “It’s just a brainfreeze.”

This only alarms the Soldier further. “A what?”

“It happens when you eat something cold too fast. It only lasts a few seconds but it hurts.”

After that, the Soldier watches Steve closely to ensure he eats slowly and doesn’t cause any further damage. Steve huffs at the treatment. “Jesus, you’re even worse than you used to be,” he complains, but the Soldier can tell that secretly, he basks in the attention.

They eat the strawberry ice cream from the same bowl, clashing their spoons together teasingly, and after the third time the Soldier knocks the spoonful of ice cream off Steve’s spoon and back into the bowl, Steve protests with an indignant “Hey!”.

The Soldier smiles at him, and the look Steve gives him makes him think that Steve must believe the sight to be just as sweet as the ice cream itself.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

“Hey, Buck?” Steve calls out, and the Soldier cranes his neck from his seat on the couch in time to see him walk out of the bathroom, tube of toothpaste in hand. “I notice you haven’t been brushing your teeth.”

The Soldier feels the blood drain from his face and takes in a deep breath, reminds himself that Steve is not his handler, that Steve would never punish him. “You said I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to,” he reminds him, swallowing nervously.

“You don’t!” Steve rushes to say, obviously picking up on the Soldier’s distress. “You don’t, Buck, not ever. But… can I ask _ why _ you don’t want to?”

“The taste. It’s very… powerful. I don’t like it.”

Steve nods in understanding, looking thoughtful. “It is pretty strong. What if I got you a different kind instead? Would you at least try it out?”

The Soldier considers, then agrees. Admittedly, he doesn’t quite like the fuzzy texture that clings to his teeth, the bad taste that sometimes coats his tongue.

Steve brings home a new tube the next day, after his morning run. “Here,” he says, “Put a little bit on your finger and taste it.”

The Soldier takes it and smears a small amount on the pad of his finger, then brings it to his lips and licks it off. Steve, who had been watching him eagerly, waiting for his reaction, suddenly burns bright red and looks away. The Soldier quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t bother asking, having adapted to Steve’s weird behaviors.

The toothpaste has a soft vanilla flavor, and the Soldier nods approvingly. “This is acceptable.”

“Good,” Steve says, cheeks still aflame. “Good, uh, glad you like it. Why don’t you go brush your teeth? I’ll uh… I need some water.”

The Soldier watches Steve’s hastily retreating back and shakes his head. People (Steve Rogers especially, he finds) are so strange.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

The more the Soldier uses the lavender spray, the more a memory scratches at the back of his mind. He ignores it at first, but Sam had told him that it’s better to talk about these kinds of things, to share what’s troubling you. Writing about it in the journal isn’t enough. So he goes to Steve instead, sits next to him on the couch one evening and says “I have recovered a memory.”

“Another one?” Steve says, looking at him with surprise. “That’s good, Buck. Or at least, I hope it is. Wanna tell me about it?”

The Soldier frowns to himself, tries to work out how to express the image in his mind, the feeling of safety that inexplicably comes with it. “There was… a handler?” he starts haltingly. Handler doesn’t sound quite right, doesn’t fit, but it’s the only word he can think of. “A woman. Curly brown hair, short, always wore a dress. She was nice, I think. She… cooked for me? And she smelled like lavender.”

The words sound ridiculous, barely make any sense to him and certainly won’t make sense to Steve. But then Steve sniffs, and the smile he gives him is wobbly. His voice, when he speaks, is soft. “That was your ma, Buck.”

The Soldier cocks his head, confused. “She gave me orders.”

“That’s just what mothers do. But she loved you. So much.” Steve’s eyes are big and blue, and when the Soldier scrutinizes them he can’t detect any signs that Steve might be lying.

The Soldier absorbs this new information, lets it sink into his bones. It feels right. When he pokes at the collection of memories again, he can recall the woman hugging him, can feel himself pecking her on the cheek. “Did I have a father?” he asks, curious, and Steve positively lights up, seemingly eager to share what he knows.

“Yeah! He wasn’t around much, always working, trying to put food on the table. Honestly, I only ever met him a couple times myself, but he was nice. When we were little he’d play baseball with us sometimes. Oh! And one time…”

Steve rambles on for hours, detailing each member of Bucky Barnes’s family, from his ma to his pa to his little sister Becca. He talks about how Barnes’ mother made the best rugelach cookies, how his father loved the Dodgers, how his sister always wore her hair up in pigtails. He continues to talk right up until he finally notices how dark the apartment has gotten and registers the time with surprise. “Aw, jeez, Buck, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize how long I’ve been yammering on for.”

“It is fine,” the Soldier says. He reflects on the new information as he brushes his teeth, as he prepares for bed, as he drifts to sleep, wondering if the words really could be true, if he really could have had a family once upon a time. It seems unlikely, but he’d like to hope.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

That night, he dreams of a little girl with gray-blue eyes, a crooked smile, and pigtails.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

Weeks later, the Soldier jolts awake to the sound of screaming, an event so familiar that it takes him a moment to realize that for once the noise isn’t coming from himself.

_ Steve. _

The Soldier is on his feet and running within seconds, fears of intruders swirling in his mind. He bursts into the bedroom, knife in hand, but there are no attackers to be seen. Instead there is only Steve, shifting restlessly on the bed, muscles tense, the blankets and sheets kicked to the floor. A nightmare, then.

The Soldier feels his heart clench with sympathy. He sets down the knife on the dresser and steps forward.

“Bucky, _ no _!” Steve shouts, voice filled with raw terror.

The Soldier freezes.

What if the nightmare Steve is having is about him? What if Steve is secretly terrified of the Soldier? What if by being present in the room the Soldier only scares Steve more, distresses him further?

The Soldier hesitates. If that’s the case, should he even risk being here when Steve wakes up?

But then Steve makes this awful whimpering sound that resonates deep inside the Soldier’s chest, and he knows he can’t delay any longer. Steve needs _ someone _, and the Soldier is the only one around who can help. In an instant he is at Steve’s bedside, the flesh hand shaking gently at his shoulder.

“Steve. Stevie, wake up, pal, c’mon.”

Steve thrashes a bit and whines, a high, needy thing. “No,” he begs, “Please, come back.”

“Steve,” The Soldier tries again, raising his voice a bit more, and this time it works.

Steve wakes with a gasp, jolting straight up, eyes scanning the room desperately. When he catches sight of the Soldier he bursts into tears.

The Soldier pulls his hand back, alarmed, but before he can retreat further, Steve whines again and lunges forward. The Soldier barely steadies himself in time, barely keeps himself standing as Steve collides with him, arms wrapped around his neck and legs encircling his waist, clinging to him like one of the creatures they had seen on TV. A koala, the Soldier thinks.

“_ Buck _,” Steve sobs, and the Soldier hesitantly brings his arms up to hold him. He can feel Steve’s tears on his neck where his face is buried, and he moves to run a hand through the hair at the nape of Steve’s neck, trying to offer what comfort he can.

“Hey, it’s alright, Stevie, you’re safe,” the Soldier croons. “I won’t let anything hurt ya.”

Steve shakes his head against his neck, body shuddering under his hands. “Hydra, they had—and you were—I lost you, Buck, I _ can’t _ lose you, not again, I won’t survive it,” he babbles incoherently.

The Soldier turns his head to nose at Steve’s hair and shushes him softly. “I’m right here, Stevie, we’re alright, I’ve gotcha.”

Steve sobs and shakes in his arms. The Soldier hefts him up to hold him more securely and walks towards the living room, easily navigating the moonlit apartment. He reaches the couch and deposits Steve there gently, snagging the blanket off the back of it and wrapping it tightly around Steve shoulders. When the Soldier tries to step back, Steve whimpers some more and clutches at his wrist. “Don’t leave me,” he pleads. The Soldier places a comforting hand on his shoulder 

“It’s alright, doll, I ain’t leavin’, I just gotta get you some stuff. I’ll be right back, it’ll only take a second, just let me take care of you, alright? Can you do that for me, Stevie, pretty please?”

He gazes tenderly into Steve’s eyes, so wide and wet, and Steve sniffles, but lets go of his wrist. The Soldier smiles and leans forward to press a gentle kiss to his forehead, the action strangely familiar.

He heats up water in the kettle and sits with Steve until it’s boiled, then rises and pours the hot water into a mug over the teabag, just like Steve has done for him countless nights before. He brings it back over to the coffee table to steep, not wanting to be away from Steve for too long. By the time the Soldier comes back, Steve is looking a bit more composed, wiping at his eyes to brush away the tears. He looks up when the Soldier returns and frowns miserably. 

“M’sorry, Buck,” he starts to say, but the Soldier cuts him off with a sharp shake of his head.

“Steven Grant Rogers, don’t you dare apologize for having a nightmare,” he chides, as he sets down the tea and sits down on the couch. He bodily pulls Steve towards him until he’s curled up sideways in his lap with his head resting against the Soldier’s chest. “What would Sam say if he could hear you, huh?”

Steve lets out a weak chuckle, slowly melting into the Soldier’s hold. “Probably that I’m bein’ an idiot,” he mumbles, and the Soldier nods approvingly.

“That’s right,” he says, wrapping his arms tightly around Steve. Steve shuffles a bit and positions his ear directly in front of the Soldier’s heart, noticeably relaxing as he listens to the sound. The Soldier’s stomach flips at the sight, and he grips Steve tighter. “See, I’m okay, Stevie,” he soothes. “I’m just fine. It was just a nightmare, I’m still here, I won’t leave ya.”

Steve’s face crumples again, and the Soldier can see him visibly trying to hold back his emotions before he finally gives in and sobs. “It seemed so real,” he whispers, and the Soldier shifts his hand to run it through Steve’s hair again.

“Why don’t you try that thing Sam told us about, where you imagine a different ending? It works pretty well for me, I think. Think you can try for me, doll?”

Steve nods against his chest and sniffles. The Soldier watches him carefully, and he can tell by the look on Steve’s face that he’s thinking of burning Hydra to the ground. “That’s it,” the Soldier praises. “There you go.”

Eventually Steve lifts his head and smiles, and even though it’s watery and weak, it still lifts the Soldier’s heart. “That really does help,” Steve murmurs, and the Soldier nods in agreement.

He makes Steve drink his tea and holds him, murmuring to him about nothing in particular, just trying to keep him distracted from any potential maudlin thoughts. When the cup has been drained and set back on the coffee table, the Soldier scritches Steve’s head, and smiles as his eyes flutter in response. “Ready to go back to bed?”

An expression of fear flits across Steve’s face before his squares his jaw and nods resolutely. The Soldier frowns, but adjust his grip and stands anyway.

Steve yelps as he is lifted, held bridal-style in the Soldier’s arms. “I can walk, Buck,” he huffs, color high in his cheeks. The Soldier looks down at him.

“Do you want to?”

The blush deepens and Steve glances away. “No,” he admits, voice so soft that the Soldier would have missed it if it weren’t for his enhanced hearing.

The Soldier nods and shifts Steve in his arms. He resumes striding to Steve’s bedroom, where he carefully sets Steve on the bed. He collects the blankets scattered across the floor and drapes them over Steve, adjusting his pillow and tucking him in tightly before nodding in satisfaction. Steve blushes at the treatment but doesn’t protest, just tracks the Soldier’s movements with bright blue eyes. The Soldier pecks another kiss on his forehead and smiles as he hears Steve huff out a laugh. He feels the skin under the brush of his lips heat further. But when he pulls back and looks down there’s still a hint of fear in Steve’s eyes, and well, that just won’t do.

The Soldier hesitates and bites at his lip. “Wait right there,” he instructs, then rushes back to his own room. He snags Captain from the bed and hurries back, then sets him on Steve’s chest and watches him blink in surprise. “You can borrow him for the night,” he offers generously.

“I’d rather borrow you instead,” Steve remarks, then claps a hand over his own mouth, eyes wide and face bright red.

The Soldier stares at him appraisingly, then nods. “Alright.”

Steve’s eyes widen further as the Soldier clambers into the bed and slips beneath the covers. “Buck,” he stammers, “I—you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” the Soldier states firmly, then falters. “That is, if you want me to…”

“I do, Buck,” Steve sighs, “I really, really do.”

The Soldier relaxes and lies back as Steve rolls over and draws him into his arms. It is a bit strange—the Soldier has been held by Steve before, but never while lying down. This allows them to be closer, pressed together head to toe. The Soldier experimentally twines their legs together and Steve sighs in contentment.

“Thanks, Buck,” he whispers into the dark, repositioning his head so that it’s back over the Soldier’s heart, just as he had done in the living room.

Engulfed in Steve’s arms and feeling safer than he ever has, the Soldier shakes his head softly even though Steve won’t see, knowing that he’s the one who should be grateful.

  
_[Art by maichan](https://maichan808.tumblr.com/post/188657503792/)_

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

The Soldier wakes to sunlight streaming through the window and the feeling of contentment in his chest. He glances over at Steve only to find that he’s already awake, staring at the Soldier with a sad smile on his face.

“What’s wrong?”

Steve shakes his head, tearing his gaze away. “Nothin’, Buck,” he mutters. “Just thinkin’, is all.”

The Soldier frowns, worried, but he can tell by the look on Steve face that that’s all he’s willing to say on the subject. “That is never good,” the Soldier teases instead, and Steve laughs.

“Jerk,” he grumbles, but he says it so fondly that it sounds like a compliment.

Eventually Steve pulls away, mumbling excuses about needing to start breakfast. The Soldier lingers in the sheets for a few minutes before dragging himself out of bed. His back pops as he stretches, and he lets out a small sound of contentment before glancing around the room.

Unlike the Soldier’s room, Steve’s room barely has any decoration other than a generic landscape photo that is framed on one wall. Somehow, the Soldier can tell that Steve didn’t select it himself. The Soldier frowns and shakes his head.

At some point during the night Captain had gotten kicked to the floor, and the Soldier picks him up and pats his head apologetically. He carries him back to his own room, where he sets him gently in his rightful place on the Soldier’s bed. 

Over breakfast, the Soldier notices Steve watching him thoughtfully. “You know, Buck,” he says eventually, “the way you were talking last night… you sounded a lot more like the old you. The way you used to be before the war.”

The Soldier frowns. Some part of him had distantly registered the fact that his voice had been pitched differently, that it had been laced with a drawled accent, that he had been using words that barely make sense to him now. But he hadn’t paid much thought to it at the time, all his focus devoted on helping Steve. “It was instinctual, I think. I hardly even noticed I was doing it.”

“Huh.” Steve rubs a hand across his jaw absentmindedly. 

The Soldier tenses in his seat, averting his gaze. “If you would like, I can attempt to speak that way more often,” he offers hesitantly.

“Hey,” Steve says gently, pausing until the Soldier glances up again, “ I like the way you talk now just fine.”

The Soldier’s shoulders slump with relief, but he chews on his bottom lip nervously, gazing up at Steve through his eyelashes. “Are you certain? I can try—”

“I’m positive, Buck,” Steve insists, jaw jutted out. “I like _ you _, not your accent or your fancy words. How you talk, how you act, what you remember… none of that matters. Not really. Just as long as you’re here. I don’t even know why I brought it up in the first place.”

“You miss him,” the Soldier murmurs softly. He shakes his head when Steve opens his mouth to protest. “No, you do. You miss your old friend. It’s alright. I understand. To lose someone so close to you…” the Soldier trails off, shuddering in distress. “I’m not sure I could stand it, if I lost you.”

Steve deflates a bit, dragging a hand across his face. “Me neither, Buck,” he sighs. He takes in a deep breath and shakes his head, recomposing himself, a serious expression on his face. “You’re right. I do miss him. But nowhere near as much as I used to, before you came back. I’m starting to get what you mean, when you say you aren’t him. You two are different. But the foundation of you, the thing that makes you _ you _, that’s still the same, Buck, and that’s what I love. I wouldn’t trade you for the world, no matter how different you are now, got it?”

The Soldier smiles down at the table, feeling his face heat up at the declaration. “Got it,” he repeats diligently.

“Good. Now eat your damn pancakes.”

The Soldier is more than happy to comply.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

That night, as they prepare to head off to their separate rooms for bed, Steve hesitates. The Soldier does as well, eyeing him hopefully. “Steve?” he ventures.

Steve shakes his head and give him a tight smile. “Sorry, Buck, just got distracted for a minute. Goodnight.”

The Soldier suppresses a frown. “Goodnight,” he replies, and there its is, there is that brief moment of hesitation again before Steve turns on his heel and disappears into his own room.

The Soldier sighs and does the same, clambering into his bed after yanking back the covers with more force than necessary. He clings to Captain more tightly than usual, burying his face into the soft fabric, wishing that Captain was as warm and alive as the real thing. 

The Soldier sighs again and runs a hand over Captain’s back, the way he has with Steve many times before. “I am sorry, Captain. As much as I care for you, you cannot replace Steve.”

Captain stares back at him blankly. The Soldier shakes his head to himself. He is talking to a toy. It is possible that brain functionality is compromised.

Try as he might, the Soldier cannot seem to find rest, regardless of the lotion on his skin, or the scent on his pillow or the waves in his ear. He tosses and turns for hours before giving up, flopping onto his back to pout up at the stars. Just as he is about to risk venturing out to the kitchen to get some tea, the door to his room creaks open softly.

When Steve sees him staring back, he winces, eyes glinting in the moonlight. “Sorry,” he whispers. “Did I wake you up?”

The Soldier shakes his head sulkily. Steve quirks a smile at him. “Can’t sleep, huh?”

At another headshake, Steve sighs, almost looking relieved. “Me neither. Uh, do you mind if I… um…”

The Soldier rushes to scootch to one side of the bed and pulls the covers back, patting the now-empty space invitingly. Steve’s nervousness dissolves, and he offers the Soldier a sheepish smile as he gets in and tugs the blankets up. “Sorry,” he murmurs, face close to the Soldier’s. “I think I sleep better with you.”

“Me, too,” the Soldier admits, and Steve grins before snuggling closer. It only takes moments after that for the Soldier to drift into unconsciousness, Steve in one arm, Captain in the other.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑

“Alright,” Sam says, seated once again in the armchair. “I have something new I wanna try today, if you’re up for it. If not, we can just talk like usual.”

Sam has been over several times since the first nightmare incident, sometimes just to eat with them or watch TV, other times to talk to Steve or the Soldier. Mostly the Soldier. Steve usually goes out to run errands during these times in a poorly disguised attempt to give Sam and the Soldier some privacy. The Soldier appreciates it. There are some memories that Steve shouldn’t have to know about.

The Soldier shakes his head, curious. “I would like to try.”

Sam grins at him proudly. “Glad to hear that, man,” he says, grabbing the notepad and pen from where they keep it on the coffee table. He hands both to the Soldier, then leans back in his chair . “So, here’s what we’re gonna do. I want you to write out a list of things that make you happy. It can be anything you want, no matter how strange or simple or whatever. Just get it down on paper. Then, if you’re comfortable with it, we can go over it together.

The Soldier nods. That sounds easy enough.

“Alright, let me know if you have a question or something,” Sam instructs, then pulls out his phone. After a moment, the Soldier can hear the sounds of some type of game coming from its small speakers.

The first thing on his list, obviously, is Steve. Next is bathtime and hair brushing, then Captain. Soft pajama pants with little animals on them. Knives. Smoothies. Space. Going on walks. Sleeping. Talking to Sam. The more he thinks, the more items he comes up with, half of them regarding food. By the time the Soldier is done, he is surprised to see that he has nearly reached the bottom of the page.

“I am finished,” he reports.

Sam puts away the phone and scoots forward in his seat, holding out a hand for the notepad. “Let’s see what you’ve got here,” he says, looking down at the list.

He smiles as he reads the first item, then starts asking questions. “Captain?” 

The Soldier nods. “My plushie,” he explains, which has Sam smiling again and shaking his head.

“Alright. What about space? You mean like personal space or…?”

“Rockets,” the Soldier interjects, and Sam nods as his face lights up.

“Oh, that’s right, I forgot about the nightlight and all the stars in your room. You must be a sci-fi guy, huh?” He grins suddenly, bright and excited. “Hey, has Steve introduced you to Star Wars yet?”

The Soldier shakes his head and furrows his brows together, perplexed. There was a war in space? He has so much to learn.

“Ah, man, you would love it. I’ll have to remember to talk to Steve about that.” He shakes his head, refocusing on the list. “Okay, one last question. Sleeping? A couple months back you were terrified to sleep. What changed? I mean, I know you said the stuff has been helping, but for this to be on your list of favorite things? That’s progress, man.”

The Soldier feels his cheeks heat, though he is unsure why. “It’s Steve,” he admits, “I like it when he holds me.”

Sam’s face scrunches in confusion, then goes suddenly blank. “You and Steve have been sharing a bed,” he says, tone too flat for it to be a question.

The Soldier nods in confirmation anyway. “We usually sleep in my room.”

“And how long has that been going on?”

“A couple of weeks,” the Soldier reports, shifting under the intensity of Sam’s gaze.

“Uh-huh,” he says slowly, pursing his lips. He looks upset. The Soldier shifts again, worried.

“Is that… wrong? Am I in trouble?” Perhaps Sam is worried about the Soldier harming Steve in his sleep, maybe during a nightmare. The Soldier doesn’t blame him, he’s worried about that too. But Steve has reassured him that it’s fine, that he knows how to handle it better now, and the Soldier wants so desperately to believe him.

Sam shakes his head sharply. “No, Barnes. You aren’t in trouble. Steve, on the other hand…”

The Soldier tenses and looks at Sam with wide, pleading eyes. “Please don’t make him stop. I enjoy sleeping with him; he makes me feel safe. I don’t want him to stop.”

Sam sighs and runs a hand over his face. “Barnes… there are some things you shouldn’t be doing at this point in your recovery. You’ve come a long way, but there’s still some stuff you don’t understand quite yet. Stuff like the importance of having your own space, or how to say no when pressured, or consent.”

The Soldier blinks. His lip feels swollen from how much he’s biting at it. “What is consent?” he asks hesitantly, and Sam lets out an explosive breath.

“See, that’s exactly the problem right there,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Consent is when you agree to do something or have something done to you. It usually relates to medical stuff or touching, and it’s very important.”

A frown tugs at the Soldier’s lips. “I consent to sharing a bed with Steve,” he declares.

Sam shakes his head again. “Ah, but see, to consent, a person has to have the ability to say ‘no’ before they can say ‘yes’. You aren’t quite there yet, at least not when it comes to bigger stuff. At this point it’s just some cuddling, and that’s great! I’m sure the two of you need a lot of that after so many years without positive touch. But what if Steve decides he wants more than that? I know for a fact that Steve would never knowingly force himself on you, but I can’t be as certain that you’ll be able to say no should you need to.”

More? What more could Steve want? How much more advanced could cuddling get?

The Soldier shakes his head and tries to focus on the issue at hand. “I can say no,” he protests, a petulant note weaving its way into his voice.

Sam raises his eyebrows. “Really? So you’re telling me that if Steve asked you for something he really wanted, something that would make him really happy, you wouldn’t do your best to give it to him? No matter how it made you feel?”

The Soldier hesitates.

“There’s our answer right there. That’s why I need to talk to Steve, so he knows not to even put you in that type of situation in the first place.” He softens his voice, waits until the Soldier looks back up at him. “Look, man, this is all just hypotheticals here. Honestly, I don’t have the slightest clue if Steve might be interested in more. This whole thing might not even apply here.”

“Then why bother?” the Soldier asks, pouting a bit. “Why go through all this trouble if it may not be relevant.”

“Because it’s important either way,” Sam says resolutely. “This applies to more than just what you two do in bed. Say Steve asked you to get in the Chair.”

The Soldier freezes, heart rate accelerating. “He—no, he, he wouldn’t do that, he  _ promised _ —”

“You’re right. He wouldn’t do that. I can guarantee you that Steve Rogers would never even want you anywhere near that thing again. But say he did. Say he told you that you getting in that Chair is the only thing that could make him happy. Would you?”

The Soldier shrinks in on himself. His breaths are coming rapidly at even just imagining such a thing. But he would do it. For Steve, he would do anything, handler or not. “Yes,” he croaks.

“And how would you feel about it? Would you want to?” Sam asks insistently.

“No,” the Soldier sobs. “No, I wouldn’t want to; I would hate it, I’d be so scared.”

“And would you tell Steve any of that? Try and stop him? Even just ask him not to?”

“No,” the Soldier says again, now only a whisper. No, he wouldn’t. Because Steve deserves happiness no matter the cost—happiness is something so rarely given to him in this world, something Steve can never seem to bring himself to ask for, to accept. The Soldier wouldn’t dare stand between Steve and what he wants.

Sam stands from the armchair and moves to sit on the couch instead. “Barnes,” he says, voice serious, “Can I hug you? You can say no.”

The Soldier nods rapidly, wiping at the tears on his cheeks. Sam carefully wraps him in his arms, and the Soldier leans into the touch, desperately seeking comfort. Sam-hugs aren’t quite as good as Steve-hugs, but they do the trick.

“That’s why we gotta work on this,” Sam says. “We need to get you to the point where you realize that your needs and wants are just as important as Steve’s.”

“They aren’t,” the Soldier tries to protest, but Sam shakes his head, pulls back enough to look him in the eyes.

“They are,” he says firmly. “Remember that talk we had about you and Steve being equals? That applies here, too. Especially here. Its normal to want to sacrifice things for someone you love, healthy, even, but not the point that it destroys you.”

The Soldier shakes his head, not understanding at all. Sam sighs.

“That’s okay, we’ll work on it. Want me to go get your—uh, Captain, was it? Maybe a blanket? I know it’s kind of warm for one, but it might help.”

The Soldier brings his legs up and curls himself into a ball. “Yes, please,” he whispers.

Sam leaves and returns with Captain and a light blanket, the first of which he hands over to the Soldier. The Soldier takes him eagerly and pulls him into an embrace. The feeling of the plushie in his hands, the soft fabric against his face, soothes him instantly. Distantly, he feels Sam draping the blanket over him.

“You did real good today, man. I’m proud of you.”

The Soldier sniffles and nods, wishing the tears would stop, wishing Steve were here.

As if summoned, the front door clicks open and Steve steps in hesitantly. “Are you guys done, or should I come back later?” he calls, and Sam glances at the Soldier.

“I think it’s best you come over here,” Sam calls back, and Steve clicks the door shut behind him and slips off his shoes. It’s only when he walks towards the couch and sees the Soldier’s tear-streaked face that he starts to look concerned.

“Bucky?” he says, picking up the pace to get to the Soldier’s side. Steve kneels down in front of him and frowns worriedly, using his hand to gently tuck the Soldier’s disarrayed hair back behind his ears, and the Soldier’s breath hitches at the gesture. “What’s wrong, Buck?” Steve asks, moving to sit next to the Soldier. He gently takes one of the Soldier’s hands into his own.

“Stevie, I—” the Soldier starts haltingly, and Steve squeezes his hand reassuringly. “Please tell me you won’t ever ask me to get in the Chair,” the Soldier rushes out. “I don’t want to forget again.”

Steve stiffens next him, looking shocked. “Bucky, what—we’ve talked about this—” Steve says, alarmed, but it’s not enough and the Soldier feels his face twisting, upset by the fact that Steve can’t promise him something so critical. He starts to pull his hand back but Steve tightens his grip, then releases it completely to drag the Soldier towards him, practically hauling the Soldier onto his lap.

“I won’t!” Steve sounds a little worried and a lot confused, clutching the Soldier tight. “Jesus, Buck, I wouldn’t, not ever. Never ever ever.”

The Soldier sighs in relief and melts into Steve’s arms, burying his face into the crook of Steve’s neck. “Thank you,” the Soldier mumbles into the skin there, squeezing his eyes shut tight to keep more tears from escaping.

“Sam, what?” Steve asks, sounding absolutely bewildered. Somewhere over the Soldier’s shoulder, Sam sighs.

“Barnes,” Sam says, “Is it okay if I tell Steve what we talked about?”

The Soldier nods into Steve’s neck but doesn’t look up, not ready to face the world again quite yet. There is silence for a few moments, just the sounds of the Soldier’s shaky breaths as Sam presumably chooses his words.

“We had a conversation on consent today,” Sam says carefully.

The Soldier can feel Steve nod slowly. “Okay… what does that have to do with why Bucky’s crying and asking me not to torture him?” There is an undercurrent of tension in Steve’s voice, of threat, as though he would be willing to defend the Soldier even if it was from one of his closest friends. A small sound escapes the Soldier’s throat and Steve shushes him soothingly, resuming the motion of his hand against his scalp.

“We discussed a hypothetical situation about what he would do if you asked him to get in the Chair, told him it would make you happy.” Steve tenses and hauls the Soldier tightly against him. “He said he would, no matter how much it terrified him.”

Steve’s grip slackens with shock, and the Soldier whines, wanting Steve’s arms to remain tight and secure. “Buck,” Steve breathes, “Sweetheart, why? Why would you…?”

This time Sam doesn’t answer for him. “I want you to be happy,” the Soldier explains softly, the words muffled. “No matter what.”

Steve’s voice makes it sound like he’s breaking inside. “Jesus, Buck, I want the same for you, but to agree to  _ that _ …” He trails off, shakes his head.

Sam clears his throat. “Obviously, his views of consent and boundaries are still a little warped at this point. So you can see,” he begins, voice taking on a hard edge, “why I became alarmed when he told me that you two are sharing a bed.”

Steve’s skin heats up against the Soldier’s face. “I—Sam, it’s not, it’s not like that,” he sputters.

“I know,” Sam asserts. “And I also know that it’s going to  _ stay  _ that way, at least until Barnes is capable of saying no.”

“Sam, I wouldn’t—I don’t even think Buck would  _ want _ —”

“We’ll talk about that, later, if you want,” Sam cuts off. “Privately. He’s not in the right state of mind for that type of discussion. Probably won’t be for a while. For now, I’m gonna go make everyone some tea, and you’re gonna stay right there and keep comforting your boy. Sound good?”

Steve nods again, and the Soldier can hear the sound of Sam’s footsteps retreating into the kitchen. The Soldier doesn’t understand what they were talking about, and he’s not sure he wants to either. He feels Steve shift his head to nuzzle into his hair. “Buck,” he says softly, “You know I’d never let anything hurt you, right?”

The Soldier nods against Steve’s shoulder and Steve tightens his grip. “Well, that goes for me, too. If I hurt you, if I made you do something you didn’t want… I don’t think I’d be able to live with myself.” Steve tenses, suddenly, and the Soldier can hear him swallow. “I—I haven’t, right?”

The Soldier shakes his head again. “No. You’ve never made me do anything I don’t want to. Except eat dinner when I was punishing myself. But that’s okay. It helped.”

Steve chuckles weakly, and the Soldier can feel it rumble in his chest where he’s pressed tight against Steve. “That’s good to know, at least. I know Sam said you guys are gonna have to work on it, but… do you think you can let me know? If I accidentally start to pressure you into doing something? Anything?”

“I can try,” the Soldier promises, and Steve nods.

Sam comes back bearing two cups of tea. The Soldier can hear them being set on the coffee table, the gentle  _ clunk _ as the mugs are set on the wood. “I think it’s best that I head out,” he announces. “We’ve done enough for today, and I feel like we all could use a break. Barnes, you have homework.”

The Soldier finally pulls his face out of the crook of Steve’s neck to look at him. Sam gives him a soft smile. “I want you to read over that list again. Maybe try and do some things on it tonight. And don’t shove it in a drawer somewhere—hang it up where you can see it every day, so it can remind you of the good things.”

“Okay,” the Soldier agrees, already planning out where he might put it. Probably taped to the mirror in the bathroom, so that he can look at it while he brushes his teeth.

“Good man,” Sam says. “I’ll text you later, see if you’d like me to come by again depending on how things go, okay? This is some scary but important stuff, and it’s healthy.”

Eventually they have to disentangle themselves in order to drink the tea before it gets cold. The Soldier does so very reluctantly, but after some coaxing, he removes himself from Steve’s lap and plasters himself to his side instead, wanting to bask in the comfort of his warmth just a little longer They sip at their tea in silence, the hot drink working its way down the Soldier’s throat and melting away the cold feeling that had formed in his chest. Steve’s hand is still in his hair scratching at his scalp. Captain is back in his grasp, clutched tightly against his chest by the hand not holding the mug.

Now that his mind has had time to be calm and regroup, the Soldier feels a bit silly for malfunctioning so severely. Rationally, he knows that Steve would never want him back in the Chair, would never ask for such a thing. But just the thought that he might had the Soldier losing all logic. That is unacceptable. The Soldier needs to be able to maintain emotional stability better in the future.

“I apologize,” he states once the tea is all gone.

Steve glances down at him in surprise. “For what, Buck?”

“For becoming emotionally unstable. For fearing you might break your promise. I know you wouldn’t ask that of me, but I just—” the Soldier cuts off and works his jaw in frustration. Steve smooths a hand over his hair, and the Soldier cannot help but to lean into the touch.

“You don’t need to apologize for that,” he chides. “It’s normal to get scared, Bucky, especially after what you’ve been through for the past seventy years. Hell,  _ I _ get scared pretty damn often, and I spent those seventy years taking a nap.”

The Soldier’s first instinct is to scold Steve for minimizing his trauma, but then the rest of Steve’s words catch up to him. “ _ You  _ get scared?” The Soldier has never known Steve Rogers to show cowardice, to back down from a fight, but Steve just snorts.

“Course, Buck. Mostly when it comes to stuff like thinking about losing you, but I’m scared of other things, too. Things like falling asleep and waking up alone in the future, drowning or freezing again, having an asthma attack, the aliens coming back…”

“ _ Aliens _ ?”

“Oh yeah, I don’t know if you were awake for that. Aliens attacked New York back in 2012, just after I got out of the ice. It was this whole big thing. Actually, I guess my teammate Thor is technically an alien, but I try not to think about that.”

The Soldier shakes his head in disbelief. He thinks he had read something about the Battle of Manhattan during his days of research, but it hadn’t stuck with him at the time.

Steve notices the notepad on the coffee table and gestures at it. “Is that the list Sam was talking about?”

The Soldier nods, pulled out of his thoughts regarding aliens and spaceships and robots. “Yes. He had me write down things that make me happy.”

Steve hums, his chest vibrating where the Soldier is resting against it at the sound. “You mind if I take a look at it?” he asks, voice forcibly casual. The Soldier tries to hide a smile. Somehow, some part of him knows that Steve has always been a nosy punk.

“Go ahead,” he grants, and stifles a laugh when Steve practically lunges forward to grab it, absentmindedly setting their mugs back on the table as he does.

“Let’s see here,” he says, leaning back against the couch. The Soldier can tell when Steve reads the first item because his face heats up adorably. “Aw, that’s sweet, Buck,” he teases, but the effect is undermined by how pleased he obviously is. “Speaking of sweet, of course I should have expected half the things on here to be food related.”

“Food is very good,” the Soldier defends, and Steve smiles at him.

The Soldier watches as he reads the rest of the list thoroughly, the same look on his face he gets when he’s trying to memorize something. For what, the Soldier isn’t sure, but the Soldier figures that only time will tell.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

Time does tell. The very next day Steve’s phone pings during lunch. “A package is here,” he announces, already standing from his seat.

The Soldier frowns around the straw of his smoothie. “We didn’t order anything.”

“I did.” There’s a mischievous twinkle in Steve’s eyes that makes the Soldier narrow his eyes suspiciously. Steve just grins in response. “Be right back.”

He returns by the time the smoothie is gone with a medium-sized package that he immediately hands to the Soldier. “For you,” he says, and the Soldier raises his eyebrows.

“The whole thing?”

Steve shrugs. “Yeah. C’mon, open it, Buck, I wanna see what you think.”

The Soldier huffs at his impatience but obediently lifts the package to inspect it. It’s light, he registers as he cuts away the tape with a knife. He folds back the cardboard flaps and blinks.

At the top of the pile is a folded-up pale-green fabric with little cartoon pandas printed all over. The Soldier carefully pulls it out of the box, noting how soft and silky it feels against his flesh hand, and shakes it out to reveal just what he suspected—the item is a pair of pajama pants.

The same is true for the next item in the pile (pigs), and the next (squirrels holding acorns), and the next (puppies), until the Soldier realizes that this must be all the box contains. More and more pants keep emerging, each with a different print, but all with cute cartoons. The type of fabric varies—some are fuzzy, some are smooth, some are silky—but every single one is soft. The two printed with monkeys and fish are shorter in length, like what Steve wears to go running. The only one without an animal shape has a rocket instead, as well as a spattering of white dots that look like stars against the dark fabric.

“I know that one technically doesn’t meet the specifications of ‘cartoon animals’,” Steve says when the Soldier reaches it, rubbing at the back of his neck, “but you do like space, and the reviews said the fabric was soft, so I figured it’d be okay.”

“It’s perfect,” the Soldier declares resolutely. “Every single one of them is perfect, Steve. Why did you…” the Soldier trails off, unsure how to ask  _ why _ , why Steve keeps doing stuff like this for him, why Steve thinks he deserves it, why he bothers to go through all the trouble.

Steve seems to understand the question without the Soldier having to finish it. “Like I said, Buck, I like spoiling you. You said these would make you happy, and you only have the two pairs, so…” he shrugs.

The Soldier abruptly scoots back his chair and rounds the table to where Steve sits to plop into his lap and wrap him up in a hug. The poor wooden chair creaks ominously beneath their weight, but the Soldier ignores the warning in favor of squishing Steve tight. “Thank you,” he says into the crook of Steve’s neck.

“Oh jeez, no problem, Buck. If I’da known some pajama pants would make you this happy I would have bought you some ages ago.” He pokes the Soldier in the ribs, causing the Soldier to make an involuntary squeaking noise and jolt, which in turn causes the seat to creak again. Steve laughs at the reaction and shakes his head. “Hey, get offa me, will you? Before we end up breaking the chair.”

The Soldier complies. He gathers the pile of pajama pants up in his arms and carries his bounty off to his bedroom. Altogether, the pajamas nearly take up a whole drawer in his dresser, a fact which satisfies him to no end.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 

After that, more gifts keep trickling in. Over the next few weeks, the Soldier receives a pillow that goes in the bathtub, a soft plush robe, some more nice smelling soaps, a small solar-system replica to place on his shelf, and a collection of sci-fi books.

The Soldier treasures every single item, but the books are his favorite. He loses hours reading, allows himself to get absorbed into the stories. He assumes Steve gets the books at a used bookstore, because each one is well worn when he receives it, a musty smell contained in the pages. The Soldier loves it, loves every aspect of reading. Steve is soon hard pressed to find him doing anything else, besides bathing, eating, or sleeping. He seems amused by the development, if not exasperated, often wheedling the Soldier into going outside or taking a break to watch TV with him.

Sam comes back for another visit and takes Steve on a long walk. When they return Steve is pink cheeked and red eyed as though he’s been crying, but he seems lighter somehow, as if a weight has been lifted. The Soldier notices Sam eyeing the two of them differently after that, looking at the Soldier with something like pity in his eyes.

The Soldier doesn’t understand, but he doesn’t ask.

Sam makes a mountain of popcorn and they pile into the living room to watch Star Wars, which the Soldier learns is the name of a fictional movie and not an actual battle. The Soldier changes into his rocket pajamas for the occasion. Sam spends a lot of time explaining that what they are going to watch is technically the first movie but is really the fourth movie somehow and the Soldier spends a lot of time nodding seriously and pretending to understand what he’s saying.

The movie involves lots of spaceships and aliens and robots and efficient looking guns. Assessment of Star Wars: positive.

By the time they’re on to the second-but-actually-fifth movie, Steve has somehow relocated his head to the Soldier’s lap without the Soldier noticing. The Soldier doesn’t mind, just runs his flesh hand through his hair. There is a man who gets a metal hand after his arm gets cut off and he has a friend who gets frozen for a while. The Soldier wonders if this is a common occurrence in friendships, but the way Steve starts crying silently during those parts makes him think it isn’t.

There is also a very strong and intelligent woman in the film with brown immaculately styled hair who causes a niggling sensation in the Soldier’s brain. Emotions identified: admiration, fear, jealousy. Strange.

When the credits for the third-but-actually-sixth movie roll, the sky outside is dark, their faces illuminated only by the light from the TV screen.

“Well,” Sam says, turning to the Soldier with a grin, “What’d you think? Did you like them?”

“Yes,” the Soldier reports. He makes his voice quiet because Steve has fallen asleep in his lap and he doesn’t wish to wake him. Sam notices the Soldier’s predicament and snorts.

“Can’t believe the idiot managed to fall asleep watching  _ Star Wars _ . You’d think all the action and you know,  _ entertainment _ would keep him awake,” Sam complains with a shake of his head.

The Soldier smiles down at Steve’s sleeping face and smooths a hand over his head. There is a wet spot on the Soldier’s lower thigh from where Steve has been drooling. The Soldier can’t find it in himself to care.

Sam yawns and stretches his arms out. “Man, nothing like a good old fashioned movie marathon. We’ll have to watch the prequels sometime this week. I’ll clean up the popcorn and lock up when I leave—good luck with Sleeping Beauty.”

The Soldier nods in thanks. Sam quietly clicks off the TV and whisks away the dishes before leaving with a small wave. The Soldier lets Steve sleep a bit longer before gently shaking him awake.

“Steve,” he whispers. “It is time to go to bed.”

“Mmph,” Steve grumbles, not even opening his eyes. “I don’t wanna get up.”

The Soldier tilts his head. “Would you like me to carry you?”

“Mmph,” Steve says again, and the Soldier takes that as a yes.

He carefully slips out from under Steve’s head and kneels next to the couch to gather him up in his arms. Steve does nothing to make the process easier, just lies there and grumbles some more, but the Soldier manages. Once the Soldier has secured his grip and stood up, Steve tips his head sideways to rest against the Soldier’s neck, humming contentedly. The Soldier smiles. Steve is asleep again before the Soldier even reaches the bedroom.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑ 


	7. Chapter 7

“Wow,” Steve says, looking at his phone, “I can’t believe June is almost over already.”

The Soldier freezes, spoonful of oatmeal halted midway on its path to his mouth. “What?”

“It’s already June 24 th . We only have a week until July.”

The Soldier does the math in his head. That gives him ten days until Steve’s birthday. The Soldier drops the spoon in the bowl and sits up straight. “I need to call Sam.”

Steve looks at him in alarm but complies, tapping at something on his cellphone. “Is everything alright?” he asks, concerned. He holds out the phone and the Soldier snatches it from his hand.

“Yes.” He stands and strides to the door to collect his boots, which he quickly tugs on before glancing back at Steve. “I will return shortly.”

It is only once he has reached the stairwell, far enough away where he can be certain Steve won’t be able to hear, that he presses the green circle on the screen to dial Sam. Sam answers with a loud groan, causing the Soldier to pull the phone away from his ear slightly in alarm. “Steve, why the hell are you calling me at,” there is a pause, “ _ five _ - _ thirty _ in the morning, Jesus Christ.”

The Soldier is uncertain how to respond to that. “Sam.”

“Barnes?” Sam asks, now sounding much more awake. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes. What is the protocol for birthdays?”

There is silence over the line for a moment, then, “Excuse me?”

“Birthdays,” the Soldier repeats. “What is the protocol?”

“Man, did you really call me before dawn for  _ this _ ?” Sam complains.

“Yes. I need intel.”

Sam sighs and grumbles something indecipherable under his breath. “Alright. Most people go out and buy a cake, or just make one themselves. You usually put candles on it. Sometimes there’s balloons, and some people throw a party but not everyone does. The birthday person is usually given gifts and cards and stuff like that. Then everyone sings happy birthday and the candles get blown out and then you eat the cake. That’s about it. This is for Steve, right?”

The Soldier nods, then remembers Sam can’t see him. “Yes.”

Sam hums. “If I were you, I’d try to do something special for him. From what I can tell, he hasn’t celebrated his birthday since he got out of the ice.”

This intel causes a heavy feeling to weigh on the Soldier’s chest. Sam is right. He will have to make Steve’s birthday extra special. “I will do my best,” he promises.

“Cool,” Sam says. “If you have any more questions you can either call me or Google it. Preferably Google it, if its before eight in the morning.”

“Thank you,” the Soldier says. He hangs up and walks back towards the apartment, already working on forming a plan. He passes a lady coming out of her own apartment and smiles politely at her. The lady looks at his monkey pajama shorts and hides a laugh behind her hand. The Soldier is glad to know he is not the only one who enjoys them.

Steve looks up when the Soldier reenters the apartment. “You sure everything is okay, Buck?” he asks nervously. The Soldier frowns. He had not meant to worry him.

“All is well,” the Soldier promises, taking off his boots and handing Steve his phone back. “I need to use the computer.”

“After you finish breakfast,” Steve asserts. The Soldier pouts but acquiesces.

The Soldier spends hours researching birthday protocols. Birthdays are more complicated than he had expected. There are many materials needed and lots of different tasks involved. The Soldier uses his old little notepad that came with the backpack and writes down all relevant information. He then looks up how to delete the search history and proceeds to do so. Discretion is key to the success of the mission.

The main problem that the Soldier keeps running into is that he does not have enough intel on what Steve might want. Asking him directly would only lead to suspicion, which is to be avoided.

The Soldier even attempts to induce memories by thinking about Steve and birthdays with extreme focus. It works, somewhat—he gets a flash of an image, bright explosions glittering across the sky, cool air on his cheeks, bright blue eyes filled with wonder as a young, reedy voice says “ _ See those, Stevie? They’re just for you. The whole city is celebratin’ your birthday.” _ This tells him that Steve might enjoy it if the Soldier coordinated an explosion for the occasion, but the Soldier has no idea what type of bomb would produce the type of colors he saw in the memory, and the information comes at the price of a sharp migraine that persists for the rest of the day. The Soldier decides that he will not attempt to induce more memories in the future and is forced into several hours moping in his room with the lights off to relieve the headache.

⭑ ⭑  ⍟ ⭑ ⭑

It isn’t until the next morning, when the Soldier is brushing his teeth and scanning over his Happy List, that an idea strikes him. It’s so simple and yet so ingenious that the Soldier can’t believe it didn’t occur to him sooner.

He forms a plan as he finishes up. He has to execute this perfectly to ensure that Steve will not notice the correlation between the Soldier request and his upcoming birthday.

He waits until after lunch when they are seated on the couch, each with books in hand. He sneaks small glances at Steve repeatedly, with far less covertness than he would usually adopt, until Steve finally notices and looks over at him. The Soldier looks away quickly then glances back again before Steve can look back down at his book. It works. Steve frowns at him and asks, “What’s up, Buck?”

The Soldier sighs, looks away, fiddles with the cover of the book in his hand before snapping it closed. “I like it when you’re happy,” he states.

Steve nods encouragingly. “Yeah, I know that Buck. It’s the same for me.”

“But…” The Soldier sighs again, hoping it appears genuine. His performance must be convincing for this to work. “Sometimes I think that maybe, you aren’t happy enough.”

“I’m plenty happy, Bucky!” Steve protests. “I have you here, what else could I want?”

“But Sam says you shouldn’t rely on just one thing to make you happy,” the Soldier points out. “That’s why he had me make the list.”

“You’re not the  _ only _ thing keeping me happy. There’s plenty of stuff that does. Like—like…” Steve frowns, then shakes his head. “Tons of stuff. My list of happy things would be just as long as yours, if I had one.”

The Soldier eyes him dubiously. “Would not,” he challenges. He knows his plan has worked when Steve juts out his jaw.

“It would! Here, I’ll prove it,” Steve says, grabbing the notepad and a pen. The Soldier has to stifle a pleased smile. That had gone almost too easily. He has successfully convinced Steve to make his own Happy List all while managing to make him believe he was the one to come up with the idea to do so in the first place.

Steve even switches from sitting in his armchair to the couch so that the Soldier can see what he writes. Perfect.

Steve gets as far as writing “Bucky” before he gets stuck. The Soldier watches as he frowns and taps his pen thoughtfully for a moment before adding ice cream, runs, and Sam. Then he gets stuck again.

The Soldier might find this to be amusing if it didn’t make his heart twinge painfully. “What about art?” he suggests softly, after nearly a full minute of silence. “You used to like drawing and stuff a lot.”

Steve looks over at him in surprise. “How’d you know about that?” he asks. “You remember?”

The Soldier shakes his head and is relieved to see that Steve’s face doesn’t fall in disappointment as it once might have at his response. “I read about it in the Smithsonian.”

Steve’s eyebrows climb up his forehead, then scrunch down. “When’d you go to the Smithsonian?”

“The day after the Helicarriers. Several times after that as well.”

“What’d’ya think?” Steve almost looks nervous to hear what the Soldier might have to say, so he chooses his response carefully. In the end, he goes with what his gut is telling him to say, even if he doesn’t fully understand what it means.

“I think that history shows that you’ve always been a punk,” he declares.

That startles a laugh out of Steve, and he grins at the Soldier so hard that the Soldier wouldn’t be surprised if his cheeks hurt from the force of it. “Well you’re a massive jerk,” Steve shoots back, and the Soldier frowns in mock disappointment at him and shakes his head.

“You should add fighting to the list as well,” he says seriously. “Everyone knows you love that.”

“Buck,” Steve protests, exasperation lacing his tone, “I don’t  _ like _ fighting, I just—”

He cuts off when he sees the Soldier’s expression, recognizing that this is one battle he won’t be able to win. After a lot of grumbling and waffling, he writes down ‘standing up for what’s right’.

The Soldier laughs softly. “Still a punk,” he murmurs, and Steve grins.

“I’m your punk,” he asserts, then flushes and looks away. The Soldier gets a niggling feeling at the back of his mind at those words, a sure sign that he has a memory associated with them, but he doesn’t risk tugging at it, not wanting to deal with another headache.

Instead he watches as Steve’s list slowly expands. He writes down art just as the Soldier had suggested, and also puts down some things that the Soldier never would have thought to add, gaining more confidence with each word he writes.

The Soldier is glad he’d decided to do this. Even if the exercise fails to gain him any information about Steve’s birthday, at the very least, it seemed to make Steve realize how many good things there are in life.

⭑ ⭑  ⍟ ⭑ ⭑

That evening, with Steve’s entire list memorized, the Soldier creates a mission plan in his little notepad. He cannot bring the Avengers here or help Steve visit someone named Peggy Carter without some help from Steve himself, but there are lots of other things on Steve’s list that he can provide. Like the various foods he had added, and some art supplies, and another few select items. In the end, Steve’s list hadn’t been quite as long as the Soldier’s, but it still gave him plenty to work with. Besides, together, they can find new things to add to their lists.

With that thought in mind, the Soldier decides to give Steve some things he knows he himself would enjoy. It is possible that the only reason Steve hadn’t added them is because he hasn’t experienced them properly, and if that is the case, the Soldier aims to fix that.

⭑ ⭑  ⍟ ⭑ ⭑

In the days leading up to Steve’s birthday, the Soldier finalizes his plan with Sam, explaining all the details thoroughly. Sam offers his advice and help, significantly cutting down the number of tasks the Soldier will have to complete on his own.

Sam vetoes his idea of buying a dog, which had been on Steve’s Happy List, lecturing on and on about the amount of time and effort and commitment having a pet requires. Instead, he personally calls a local shelter and gets them to agree to allow Steve to drop by for a few hours to play with their animals. The shelter is more than happy to accept, both due to the fact that Steve is Captain America, and because they need to tire out the dogs so they won’t be as scared when the fireworks start. (The Soldier has learned what causes the colorful explosions.)

Sam also advises him as to which stores may or may not be open on the 4 th , which the Soldier learns is an actual holiday based on the American Revolution and not a celebration to honor the birth of Steven Grant Rogers. This disappoints the Soldier deeply. Steve should absolutely have a holiday that is solely based on him.

With the mission approved by Sam and the necessary supplies ordered, there is nothing left to do but wait.

⭑ ⭑  ⍟ ⭑ ⭑

On the morning of July 4 th , the Soldier pretends that absolutely nothing is different. He wakes the same time as usual, smiles at Steve the same way as usual, and sits down for breakfast the same way as usual.

As they eat, Steve frequently sneaks glances at him, an almost expectant expression on his face. The Soldier pretends not to notice, and instead methodically makes his way through his toast. Just as they are both about to finish off their plates, Steve leans back in his chair, pose forcibly casual. “So… today’s the 4 th of July,” he remarks.

The Soldier scrunches his eyebrows together as if confused, then smooths his face and nods. “Ah, yes. The American holiday.”

Steve falters a bit, but nods. “That’s right, Buck. In fact, some people even call it America’s birthday.” The last word is said pointedly and paired with a hopeful expression.

The Soldier tilts his head in consideration. “That seems like an accurate description, yes,” he agrees, giving nothing away.

Steve positively deflates, slumping down in his chair with such a dejected expression that the Soldier nearly abandons the plan altogether. But he pulls through and reminds himself that this birthday has to be special, has to be perfect. He just has to endure this for a few more hours. 

Steve’s phone pings, likely with the text from Sam, and he perks up a bit. “I better head out soon, Sam just said he’s gonna join me on my run.”

The Soldier hides a pleased smile behind his glass of milk. Sam had mercifully agreed to make the sacrifice of waking up early to accompany Steve on his run and hopefully ensure Steve doesn’t return home before the Soldier is ready. “Okay. Tell him hello.”

The Soldier waits five minutes after Steve has left before heading out himself.

He had used the same strategy the day before, sneaking out after Steve left to help at the VA for a couple hours to pick up all the necessary gifts. His first stop had been the art supply store, where he had picked up an easel and about three hundred dollars’ worth of art supplies using the money Steve had given him a couple months ago. Next was a dollar store for the wrapping paper, then a music shop for the record player and vinyls, then the bookshop for some historical novels. The Soldier diligently had not allowed himself to be distracted by the display on sci-fi books. Nor had he let his eyes wander when picking out the perfect bottle of bubble bath.

The Soldier had looked a bit ridiculous walking down the street carrying everything, but most of the smaller items were placed in his backpack, and the load was nothing he couldn’t handle.

Luckily today, his list of items to acquire is significantly shorter.

Sam had called ahead for him so the cake is already prepared when the Soldier drops by the bakery. The only other stop is the flower shop, where he picks up a large bouquet of sunflowers, along with a pretty blue vase. He was fortunate both shops were usually open very early.

The cake gets hidden away in the back of the fridge. The Soldier hauls the gifts out from where he had hidden them in the back of the closet, and wraps everything efficiently and precisely, then shoves it all back in for Sam to put out later. He changes back into his pajamas so that Steve won’t have any reason to suspect the Soldier ever left the apartment. He has just finished filling up the tub with warm water and bubbles when the front door clicks open. The Soldier smiles. Perfect.

He strides out into the kitchen and grabs Steve’s hand to drag him to the bathroom. “Buck, what?” Steve asks, but follows along obligingly. “Oh,” he says when he sees the tub. “Are you gonna take a bath? I hate to ask, but do you mind if I take a quick shower first? I’m all sweaty and gross.”

The Soldier shakes his head and points at the bathtub. “Get in,” he orders.

Steve blinks. “In the tub?”

“Yes.”

Steve looks at him in bewilderment. “Why?”

The Soldier glances away and calculates the best response. He bites his lip and looks back up at Steve shyly. “You seemed sad this morning. I believe a bath will cheer you up.”

“Aw, Bucky, it’s fine, you don’t need to—”

“I want to,” the Soldier cuts in. “Please?”

Steve smiles at him softly. “Alright, Buck. Whatever you want.”

The Soldier nods in satisfaction. “Get in,” he repeats. “I’ll be right back.” He goes back to the kitchen and grabs the vanilla ice cream milkshake he had made earlier from the fridge, as well as a bowl of fresh blueberries, which according to the list are Steve’s favorite fruit. By the time he returns, Steve has already sunk into the water and is leaning his head back against the back pillow.

“Wow,” he says, “I forgot how nice baths are. Did you order a new bubble bath? It smells really good.”

The Soldier smiles, pleased, and sets up the little table that can be placed on the sides of the tub before putting the blueberries and milkshake on it. “Yes. It is vanilla and brown sugar scented.”

Steve takes in a deep breath. “It’s amazing. You really don’t hafta do all this, Buck. I mean… sure, I was a little upset this morning, but it’s not a big deal. I’m already over it.”

The Soldier gathers up all the necessary soap and kneels behind Steve’s head. “Maybe I like spoiling you,” he says, and Steve laughs and shakes his head.

“Using my own words against me, huh, Buck?”

The Soldier just hums in response. “Get your hair wet. Please.”

Steve complies. The second the Soldier’s hands start massaging onto his scalp, loaded up with shampoo, Steve lets out a positively indecent sound that causes a strange sensation of heat to bloom in the Soldier’s belly. The Soldier frowns but ignores it, instead focusing on using his hands just right, pulling out all the tricks he’s learned after months of washing his own hair.

He smiles as Steve melts like putty right under his hands, eyes fluttered closed and muscles relaxed. The Soldier moves his hands down to massage at the base of Steve’s neck and his shoulders and Steve groans. “Good?” the Soldier asks, and Steve nods reverently.

“’S so good, Buck, oh my god,” he praises, and the Soldier can’t help but preen a little. He carefully works the knots out of Steve’s muscles before returning back to his hair, scratching his nails against his scalp.

By the time Steve has been thoroughly cleansed, he is completely relaxed, his milkshake drained and his bowl empty. The Soldier checks the time on the watch Steve had bought for him and frowns. “It is nearly nine o’clock. We will have to leave soon.”

Steve cracks an eye open and twists his head around to look at him. “Leave? For what?”

“Sam believes it would benefit me to try some volunteer work. He has set it up for me to help at a dog shelter at ten o’clock,” the Soldier explains.

Steve frowns and deflates a bit, which is concerning and not at all the reaction the Soldier had been hoping for. “Oh. He mentioned something about that on the run, but I didn’t think it’d be today.” He shakes his head and offers the Soldier a strained smile. “It doesn’t matter. Have fun.”

The Soldier falters. “Are you not coming with me?”

Steve blinks. “Do you want me to?”

“Yes,” the Soldier says firmly. Steve perks up again and smiles.

“Okay, yeah, sure. Just let me get dried off and I’ll go get ready.”

The Soldier tries not to let his relief show on his face. For a moment, he had feared that the plan may fall apart.

He collects the dishes from the bath tray and quickly washes them in the kitchen sink. Then he goes back into his room to pull on the clothes he had worn earlier, as well as his backpack, which he fills with some bottles of water and some snacks. According to his schedule they will not eat until one o’clock in the afternoon, and the Soldier is well aware that Steve will require something to tide him over until then.

Steve emerges from his own room not long after the Soldier has finished. They walk to the shelter together; the Soldier having memorized the location Sam had given him and planned the most efficient route. It’s just starting to heat up outside, the air warm but not unbearably so. Steve chatters on about his run with Sam and the Soldier listens attentively, always happy to hear what Steve has to say.

The girl behind the front desk at the shelter flounders for a moment upon seeing them, then visibly collects herself and adopts a professional smile. “Mr. Barnes, thank you for your offer to volunteer today,” she greets, and the Soldier smiles, pleased that she is following the directions Sam had said he’d given her. “And Captain Rogers, how nice of you to take time out of your busy schedule to drop by. Are you interested in helping out today as well?”

Steve smiles and ducks his head a bit, never good at receiving attention. “Yes, ma’am. I’m happy to help with whatever you need. And please, call me Steve.”

The girl blushes and clears her throat. “That’s very generous of you, Steve,” she says, leading them behind the desk and through a doorway. “Now, I’m afraid that the task I have in mind for you two boys is going to be quite difficult.”

Steve straightens and nods, looking serious and determined. The Soldier has to suppress a smile at the sight, and he can see the girl, Nora, according to her nametag, do the same. “I’m sure we can handle it, ma’am,” Steve promises.

Nora nods back at him with a serious expression. “Good, because this job is very important,” she stresses as she leads them further down the corridor. “As I’m sure you know, there will be lots of fireworks going off tonight, and all the racket tends to terrify the dogs.” She pauses and opens a door, leading them to a large shaded courtyard filled with dogs, all of which are running around excitedly or dozing in the grass. “Your job is to tire them out so they’ll be as relaxed as possible for tonight. There’s a bunch of toys in that bucket over there. Go ahead and use whatever you want.”

Steve blinks. “Is that it? You don’t need help, I don’t know, cleaning the kennels or moving stuff around?”

Nora shakes her head. “We already have other volunteers working on that.” She frowns and looks at him anxiously. “If you don’t want to, perhaps I can find someone else…”

“No! No, that’s fine. We’ll do our best,” Steve promises, voice filled with determination.

“Good,” Nora says, looking relieved. The Soldier is impressed. She would be skilled in espionage. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, then. These are the older dogs, but in about two hours or so we’re going to switch them out so you can work with the puppies instead. Good luck.” Before she leaves she winks at the Soldier, who smiles and nods at her in thanks.

“Buck,” Steve hisses once she’s gone, his body practically vibrating with excitement, “We get to play with  _ dogs _ .”

The Soldier barely contains a smile, instead nodding solemnly. “This sounds like a very important task. I hope I will be sufficient.”

“You’ll do fine, Bucky,” Steve reassures, “Playing with dogs is fun. Here, I’ll show you.”

The hours seem to pass by much faster than usual. The Soldier can’t help from smiling in pride as he watches Steve running back and forth across the courtyard, the dogs chasing after him and barking happily. Steve must have used every toy in the bucket by now. The grin on Steve’s face is so wide and bright that it rivals the sun.

Seeing Steve so happy settles something in the Soldier’s mind. Part of him had worried that this wouldn’t be enough. After all, Steve deserves everything, and the Soldier only has so much to offer him. But Steve seems to be enjoying himself well enough, and the Solider is surprised to admit that he is too. He’s not quite as energetic as Steve, but he still enjoys playing tug of war with the dogs or sitting in the grass with the ones who are already tired out.

By the time the two hours are up, most of the dogs seem to be happily exhausted, and he and Steve lie on the ground with them and run their fingers through the soft fur of every dog in reach. Steve seems a bit worn out himself, but in a good way, his posture relaxed and his eyes happy. Nora smiles when she comes back out to check on them, then she and another worker round up all the dogs and take them back inside to their kennels.

The puppies are brought out not long after. The Soldier had wisely sat up when they started running in, but Steve isn’t fast enough, and ends up covered in wiggly fluffy bodies. “ _ Buck _ !” he gasps out between peels of laughter as the dogs climb all over them, not wanting to move and risk hurting one accidentally. “Buck, help me.”

The Soldier ignores his pleas in favor of stroking his hand down the back of the little black dog doing its best to climb up his chest to lick his face. One of the puppies near Steve’s head begins nibbling at his ear, and Steve squeals. “Bucky _ , please,” _ he wheezes, giggling uncontrollably, unsuccessfully trying to squirm away, and the Soldier takes mercy on him and picks up the offending puppy. It happily nibbles on the fingers of the metal arm instead.

All of the puppies have energy levels that rival Steve’s, but Steve rises to the challenge and keeps up with them, paying extra attention not to accidentally step on any. Before long, the puppies have all conked out, rumbling little snores escaping as they sleep, most of them piled on top of Steve. They seem to enjoy the heat that radiates from his body. The Soldier doesn’t blame them. He himself has a collection of dogs in his lap, one of the few still awake nibbling quietly on his shoelace.

“You boys did perfect,” Nora praises when she comes back out. “Free feel to come back anytime.”

Steve grins up at her from where he’s gently dislodging the pile of sleeping puppies on his chest. “We are definitely going to. Right, Buck?”

He looks so hopeful that the Soldier has no choice but to nod. “Yes. We will return.”

Steve leaves the shelter with a skip in his step and a grin on his face, cheeks flushed pink with contentment. “Man, that was so much  _ fun _ ,” he gushes. “We have to go back soon, Bucky, I miss them already.”

The Soldier smiles softly at him. “Maybe we can stop by again tomorrow?” he suggests, and Steve lights up.

“Yes! Definitely! Nora gave me their business card so I can call and set up a time. Also, I am  _ starving _ .”

The Soldier rolls his eyes. Apparently, eating an entire backpack full of snacks hadn’t been enough to sate the man’s appetite.

“Do you wanna stop somewhere to eat?” Steve asks hopefully. “I know a pretty good restaurant not far from here.”

The Soldier shakes his head sharply. “I am tired,” he declares, knowing it will be enough to get Steve to drop the subject. He discreetly checks his watch and is pleased to see that they are right on schedule. He has no way of staying in contact with Sam without Steve’s knowledge, so all he can do is hope that Sam had time to set everything up without difficulty.

“Oh, yeah, of course,” Steve says. “Sorry, I guess it’s been a long day for you. We can eat something at home. Maybe pancakes?”

“Perhaps,” the Soldier agrees cryptically. Steve eyes him strangely, likely suspicious of the fact that the Soldier hadn’t jumped at the chance to eat his favorite dish, but before he can pry further they arrive at the apartment building. When they reach the door to the apartment the Soldier hangs back behind his Steve’s shoulder, wanting him to open the door first.

Steve opens the door and Sam shouts “Surprise!”. Over Steve’s shoulder, he can see that everything has been arranged just as he specified. The sunflowers are positioned in the center of the table and are surrounded by food. Blue balloons with ribbons attached float near the ceiling, streamers line the walls, and Sam is in the middle of the kitchen with a big grin on his face.

Steve looks around the apartment in shock and blinks. “Sam, what…?” he starts, but Sam shakes his head.

“Uh-uh, don’t look at me. This entire thing was Barnes’ idea. I just did what he told me to.”

Steve turns to look at the Soldier, who smiles shyly. His eyebrows furrow together. “Is this because of the 4 th of July?”

The Soldier resists the urge to smack Steve on the back of the head. As satisfying as it would be, he doesn’t want to hurt him, not even a little bit. Especially not on his birthday. Instead he gives Steve A Look. “No. It is because of your birthday.”

Steve’s jaw drops open. “You remembered?” he asks, voice small and wavering, eyes wide.

“Of course,” the Soldier says somewhat offended. As if he could forget something as important as this.

Steve’s eyes brim with tears at the same time his mouth curls up, and before the Soldier can blink he’s being swept into a crushing hug. “Jesus, Buck,” Steve sighs. “You’re the best.”

The Soldier grins, pleased, but pulls back. “Hugging is not in the schedule,” he scolds, and Steve laughs and wipes at his eyes.

“You made a schedule?”

“Yes,” Sam says, “And he planned everything right down to the damn minute, so I suggest you get over here and start eating before he throws a fit.”

The Soldier nods in agreement and Steve laughs again before complying, taking his usual seat at the table. “Wow,” Steve enthuses, eyeing the selection. “Is that colcannon? And roast beef? Where the hell did you guys get all this?”

“A little Irish restaurant not too far from here,” Sam explains as he sits down. “Barnes told me exactly what to order. I just picked it up about thirty minutes ago and it’s been in the oven on low heat, so it should still be warm.”

“And you got sunflowers!” Steve runs his fingers along a soft petal almost reverently.

The Soldier nods. “I bought them this morning while you were on your run. They were on your Happy List. Are they acceptable?”

Steve nods eagerly. “They’re perfect. I don’t know if you remember, but they were my ma’s favorite. When I was growing up she used to call me her little sunflower. Well, either that or sunshine.”

Sam grins and shakes his head. “Man, that’s adorable. My mom used to call me stinkbug.”

It appears that Steve hadn’t been lying when he had said he was starving. He positively devours the feast, single-handedly finishing off about half the food on the table. The Soldier smiles and shares a look of exasperation with Sam, but doesn’t comment. Some deeply buried part of him is thrilled to see Steve eating as much as he wants and not a crumb less. Luckily, the Soldier had anticipated this and had asked Sam to buy some extra food and put it in the fridge for dinner.

Between the three of them, there is soon nothing left on the table but dirty dishes. The Soldier carries them all to the sink to deal with later and glares at Steve when he tries to get up and help. Sam, being wise, knows to stay put since he is a guest.

The Soldier pulls the cake from the fridge and carefully removes the box, inspecting it for mistakes one last time before nodding in satisfaction. He lays out clean plates and silverware (“ _ Wait, Buck, there’s  _ ** _more_ ** _ ?” _ ) before bringing the cake out to the dining table, along with a carton of vanilla ice cream.

Steve takes one look at the cake before bursting into laughter. The Soldier had listened very carefully to his instincts when making the request for the cake. Scrawled against the white buttercream in elegant script with rich blue frosting are the words “Happy Birthday to the World’s Biggest Punk”.

“Oh man, this is great, Buck,” Steve says with a shake of his head. “What kind is it?”

“Apple cake. I remembered… it was your favorite?” The Soldier suddenly falters, worried that the memory may have been false, but Steve beams at him.

“It is! Apple cake with buttercream icing. Most years we couldn’t afford to make it, but the years we could… This is amazing, Buck.  _ You’re _ amazing.”

The Soldier can help himself from puffing out his chest in pride. Sam and Steve laugh at him, but he’s too happy to care.

⭑ ⭑  ⍟ ⭑ ⭑

After they’ve had their fill of cake and ice cream they pile into the living room. Steve gapes when he sees the mountain of presents stacked up on the coffee table, the easel that had been too large to wrap off to the side. “Are all of those for  _ me _ ?”

Sam snorts. “Well, duh. Who else would they be for?”

Steve shakes his head and drops onto the couch, looking at the pile of presents like he has no clue where to start. “I can’t possibly accept all this,” he protests.

“You can and you will,” the Soldier declares, a hard edge to his voice. When Steve looks like he’s about to start arguing, the Soldier switches tactics and pouts instead. “Please, Stevie?” he asks, and Steve deflates.

“Yeah, alright, fine,” he mutters. Sam gives the Soldier a thumbs up.

Despite all his grumbling, Steve enthuses over every single present. He marvels over the quality of the art supplies, reads the descriptions on each of the books, and chatters excitedly about the record player. Apparently he and Bucky Barnes had never been able to afford one before the war, but they’d always wanted one. The Soldier had carefully selected records that were popular during the 30’s and 40’s, and Steve rambles on about the ones he remembers and how he can’t wait to listen to them again. Sam had also gotten Steve some records, though his choices were more modern. Sam’s other gift is a pair of red white and blue running shoes, the sight of which make Steve laugh.

All the while Steve interjects his praises and thanks with protests of “you guys really didn’t have to do all of this” which Sam and the Soldier pointedly ignore.

Sam leaves soon after all the presents have been opened, citing a family barbecue he has to attend. The Soldier and Steve spend the rest of the day watching Disney movies, Steve with his head pillowed comfortably on the Soldier’s lap, and the Soldier with a hand buried in Steve’s hair.

At nine o’clock the Soldier drags Steve and a bundle of blankets up the stairwell and onto the rooftop. No one else is up here, likely due to the belief that the door leading out would be locked. Which it had been, at least before the Soldier had picked it.

“What are we doin’ up here, Buck?” Steve asks, a happy smile still lingering on his face from the day’s events. The Soldier arranges the blankets and pillows into a comfortable nest. He sits down and wiggles around to test their comfort level before nodding in approval and patting the space next to him. Steve obeys the unspoken command and flops down on the blankets.

“Fireworks,” the Soldier explains.

Steve lights up. “Really? Are they gonna be near here?”

The Soldier nods and points to the north, where the display is scheduled to start in just ten minutes.

The air still holds some warmth from earlier in the day, but Steve still cuddles up next to the Soldier the way he used to in the bitter winters before the war. The Soldier revels in the feeling, in the memories. When the fireworks start, he watches Steve’s face more than he does the actual show itself, soaking in the look of wonder on his face, the way the glittering lights reflect in his eyes.

After the grand finale Steve turns back to the Soldier and looks as him as though he is just as dazzling as the lights that had lit up the sky. “Today was perfect, Buck,” he says softly, and the Soldier nods because yes, it really was.

Steve eyes are so soft and so blue in the dim lights of the city. “Buck?” he asks apprehensively, “Can I ask you for something?”

“Anything,” the Soldier assures. Steve glances away before looking back up with a resolute expression.

“Say you won’t leave me. Not again. Not ever.”

The Soldier blinks. He certainly never wishes to leave Steve, but there are too many factors at play, too many different scenarios in which he may be forced to. But Steve looks so hopeful, so vulnerable, that the Soldier nods despite himself. “Okay,” he murmurs. “I won’t. ‘Till the end of the line, right?”

He isn’t sure where the words came from, but they seem to be the right ones, because Steve positively lights up. “Promise?” he pleads, voice wavering, and the Soldier could never deny him.

“I promise.”

⭑ ⭑  ⍟ ⭑ ⭑

Slowly, Steve’s bedroom turns into the new guest room-slash-office-slash-art studio. His new books get lined up on the Soldier’s bookshelf, and his clothes migrate into the Soldier’s dresser drawers. The Soldier doesn’t mind. It is nice, to look around his space and see traces of Steve everywhere he looks. Even if those traces occasionally consist of Steve’s dirty socks discarded haphazardly on the floor.

Steve starts drawing again. He is a bit out of practice, having not done much except doodle since he was rescued from the ice, but he gradually builds up his skills and his confidence. Lightly drawn sketches in his sketchbook turn into intricately drawn colored pencil renditions, which turn into large time-consuming oil paintings. The Soldier likes to sit on the bed of the guest room with a book in hand and watch as Steve transforms what was once a blank canvas into magnificent pieces of art.

Steve critiques his own work harshly, lamenting about how ‘that color is a bit off’ or ‘the windows on that building look strange’ or ‘those waves aren’t even realistic at all’. The Soldier loves each and every piece as though it were an extension of Steve himself, and displays them proudly on the walls until the once bleak apartment is filled with color. Steve huffs and blushes and wheedles ( _ “Buck, c’mon, don’t hang up  _ ** _that_ ** _ one, it’s awful _ ”) but doesn’t stop the Soldier, doesn’t take the paintings down. The Soldier thinks it has something to do with the smile he feels stretch over his own face once a painting has been mounted in the perfect spot.

The Soldier works with Sam on setting boundaries and understanding consent. He practices saying ‘no’ to Steve. Small things mostly, like in response to Steve asking him to bring him a drink, or Steve telling him to ‘pick his damn shoes off the middle of the floor and put ‘em where they go’. He tries to remember that he is  _ important _ , that his wants and desires  _ matter _ , that he doesn’t have to do anything he doesn’t  _ want to _ . It’s all very new and strange and difficult to remember, but he works on it.

They become regulars at the dog shelter, sometimes just playing with the dogs, but mostly helping with actual volunteer work. Nora greets them kindly each time, and politely fails to mention the fact that the Soldier never takes off his jacket and gloves no matter how sweltering the heat gets. Luckily, the weather slowly cools down to the point that wearing jackets doesn't make him appear suspicious to the rest of the public. 

The pretty red and orange leaves that the Soldier had enjoyed looking at so much all end up fluttering to the ground. The Soldier is somewhat sad to see them go, but they crunch pleasantly underfoot, so he’s not too upset about it. Sometimes when he’s out walking he’ll pause to scoop up a particularly pretty one. Steve shows him how to press them in books and buys him some picture frames to display them in. The Soldier thinks that the vibrant colors stand out nicely against the dark blue walls of his bedroom.

The Soldier relaxes. That niggling thought of  _ this can’t last  _ arises less often and less loudly, until it’s barely a whisper in the back of his mind. The sounds of the records crooning music through the apartment, of Steve’s laughter, of Sam’s kind words, are enough to drown it out until the Soldier hardly hears it at all.

Because maybe, just maybe, this can last.

⭑ ⭑  ⍟ ⭑ ⭑


	8. Chapter 8

The Soldier wakes with the knowledge that something is wrong. What, exactly, he isn’t sure. Steve is still sound asleep in his arms, snoring softly, his face slack and content. The Soldier relaxes slightly at knowing Steve is safe, but the unsettled feeling remains.

The alarm clock’s glowing numbers reveal the time to be just past five in the morning. The Soldier extracts himself from Steve’s grasp gently, careful not to wake him. Steve frowns and snuffles but doesn’t wake. The Soldier brushes a kiss across his forehead as an apology for disturbing him.

His footsteps on his path from the bedroom to the living room are silent, the bedroom door not making even a creak as it opens. Out here, the feeling grows more intense. He glides through the apartment like a ghost, scanning the area, still somewhat dark in the pre-dawn light filtering through the curtains. He freezes.

There is a woman seated at the dining room table.

In an instant, a knife is in his hand, then out of it, sailing through the air towards her only to thunk into the wall as she dodges at the last second. There is a flash of red hair and a sense of  _ danger _ tugging at the Soldier’s memories. The Soldier raises another knife and the woman lunges at him, wrapping her thighs around his neck in a way that makes his brain light up with recognition, as though this has happened before. His knife falls to the floor with a clatter as he lifts his hands to extricate himself from her hold.

“отставить!”

The Soldier tenses at her words and snarls, finally dislodging her grip to send her flying across the room. He doesn’t recognize this woman as Hydra, has no memories of her being his handler that he can access, but that means nothing. His memories are unreliable at best, and he knows this woman from  _ somewhere _ .

She lands easily and throws a knife of her own, then another, then another, each of which the Soldier easily dodges. “Buck?” Steve calls from the bedroom, voice still sleepy, and the Soldier freezes, eyes widening. He needs a plan. He cannot let Steve get hurt.

The distraction is enough for one of the woman’s knives to hit its target. It sinks into his flesh shoulder with a flash of pain and the Soldier growls again, yanking it out and sending it flying back towards her. She dodges again, but just barely, and the Soldier takes the opportunity to tackle her to the floor as she does. In his periphery he sees Steve come bursting into the room, still in his pajamas with his hair mussed up. The Soldier mentally curses Steve for not escaping while he had the chance, but doesn’t allow himself to get distracted again, at least not until Steve says, “Bucky,  _ stop _ , you—Natasha, what the  _ hell?” _

The Soldier pauses, worried, because  _ Steve knows her? _ But before he has the chance to do anything else, the woman slaps something onto his neck and smoothly rolls away just as white-hot electricity begins to course through him.

His body convulses and his metal arm malfunctions under the onslaught. The Soldier brings his flesh hand up to desperately claw at his throat, trying to dislodge whatever is stuck there. The pain is so intense, so familiar, and there is nothing in the Soldier’s mind but terror. Nothing makes sense. Is he in the Chair again? This doesn’t feel like the Chair, but there’s electricity in his brain and he  _ doesn’t want to forget _ . The Soldier can feel his throat working around a scream but he can’t hear it over the sound of blood rushing through his ears.

Distantly, he registers that there are people shouting nearby. Then there are hands on him, and he fights, struggles to get away from them because he  _ can’t _ , he  _ won’t _ , he won’t let Hydra touch him. But then something tugs at his neck and suddenly the pain is gone. There’s nothing but the sound of his own labored breathing and a voice saying “Bucky, Buck, come on, talk to me pal”.

“Steve, you shouldn’t—” a different voice barks, but it quickly gets cut off.

“Shut up, Natasha. Buck, can you hear me?”

The Soldier keeps his eyes clenched shut, not wanting to open them and see the bank vault and the scientists and the restraints on his body. “готов соблюдать,” he grinds out, and he feels someone shake him.

“No, no, Bucky! Sweetheart, it’s me, it’s Stevie, it’s just me; you’re safe,” the voice rambles.

The Soldier pries his eyes open and peeks up, still half-afraid that he’ll find himself with Hydra again. But when his vision focuses he is met with the sight of bright blue eyes that he would know anywhere. “Stevie?”

Steve smiles and nods, looking pale and shaken. “Yeah, Buck, that’s right, it’s me.”

The Soldier shuts his eyes again and breathes in the way Sam taught him to. Slowly, he regains control of his thought processes, and is able to look about to take in what is going on around him. He is lying on the floor of their apartment. The restraints on his arms aren’t actually restraints, just Steve’s hands, holding him. Steve is hovering over him, looking worried but unharmed. The woman (Hydra?) stands off to the side, eyeing him warily, but not making any move to attack. He is not with Hydra. He is home. “Steve,” he breathes, locking his eyes back onto Steve’s gaze, “What’s going on?”

Steve’s face hardens, jaw ticking with anger, but the Soldier can tell the feeling isn’t directed at him. “That’s a good question, Buck,” he says, looking away from the Soldier to glare at the woman. “Natasha?”

“Steve,” she responds coolly. “If I were you, I would step away from the Soldier.”

Steve blows a long breath of air through his nose. “And if  _ I  _ were you,” he says tightly, “I would go grab the first aid kit and start explaining before I kick you out and never speak to you again.”

The woman—Natasha—purses her lips and sighs. “Where is it?”

“Bathroom. Cabinet under the sink.” Steve is no longer looking at her, instead focused on scooping up Soldier to relocate him to the couch.

The Soldier watches as she disappears from sight, then turns back to Steve, who has sat the Soldier on the couch and is now crouching in front of him, a hand tangled in the hair on the side of the Soldier’s head. “You know her?” the Soldier asks, voice a low murmur. Steve nods. “Is she Hydra?”

“No, Buck. She’s an Avenger, like me. I trust her. Or at least, I  _ did _ ,” he says the last part pointedly, eyeing Natasha as she hands over the kit. She shows no reaction, only turns around and moves to sit back in the dining room chair, where she continues to carefully scrutinize the Soldier.

The Soldier ignores her, instead focuses on Steve’s actions as he rubs an ointment on the burn mark where the small disc had been attached, and the scratch marks surrounding it. He finally notices the blood seeping through the Soldier’s shirt and tugs at the collar, hissing when he sees the wound.

“Jesus Christ, Natasha, what did you do? Stab him?”

She shrugs unrepentantly. “He tried to stab me first.”

Steve shakes his head, lips pressed into a fine line. He carefully bandages the injury as though it won’t be completely healed within the next few hours. The Soldier doesn’t protest; he thinks that maybe taking care of him makes Steve feel better.

Steve grabs a blanket and drapes it over the Soldier before going into the kitchen to make some tea. The Soldier doesn’t even realize that he is shaking until he takes the cup and notices the way the surface of the liquid ripples.

“You okay, Buck?” Steve asks softly. The Soldier looks up from the cup and nods.

“Functional,” he reports.

Steve eyes him worriedly. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

Steve doesn’t seem entirely convinced, but he nods and runs a hand over the Soldier’s hair. “I’m gonna go talk to Natasha. You stay right there and drink your tea. Don’t hesitate to shout if you need anything.” He waits until the Soldier nods before standing and turning towards the dining room. “Nat, my room, now.”

The Soldier watches as he leads her into the guest room. Though Steve promised the woman is a friend, having them both out of sight makes the Soldier anxious. The Soldier clutches at the cup of tea in his hands and strains his ears to listen to their conversation, just in case. The fact that Steve hasn’t made any move to keep their words private by closing the door alleviates some of the Soldier’s guilt about invading Steve’s privacy. According to Sam, respecting privacy is very important.

Steve barely waits until they’ve entered the room to start questioning her. “Why are you here?”

“Well, I came with information regarding a lead on the Winter Soldier’s location, but it looks like you won’t be needing that,” she says, a hard edge to her voice. “How long?”

Steve sighs, and the Soldier can imagine him rubbing a hand down his face, the way he does when he’s tired. “Since  March .”

“And you didn’t tell me because…?”

“Because I know you, Nat! I knew that the second we found him, you would be making demands about turning him in or restraining him or questioning him, and that is the  _ last thing _ he needs to go through right now.”

“And what about the public?” Natasha shoots back, and the Soldier flinches at her words, shrinking in on himself. “What do they need? A brainwashed assassin roaming around undetected? SHIELD has the resources to take care of him while ensuring safety for  _ everyone _ —"

“ _ SHIELD _ ?” Steve barks out incredulously. “You want me to turn him into the same people who up until a few months ago were working for Hydra?”

“They’re different now and you know it,” she insists. “Fury, Hill, and Coulson run the whole thing. Are you saying you don’t trust them?”

“Not with  _ him _ , Natasha, no. I don’t trust anyone with him but myself.”

“And do you trust yourself to be able to restrain him if need be? To be able to take him down if he attacks you or someone else?”

The Soldier thinks of that nightmare all those months ago, thinks about the feeling of the metal hand wrapped around Steve’s neck, thinks about the Helicarriers, and knows she’s right. Steve  _ wouldn’t  _ take the Soldier down, even if his own life was in danger. Even if it was at the cost of his own life.

The Soldier feels sick.

“It won’t come to that,” Steve says resolutely.

“He’s dangerous.”

“He’s  _ not _ .”

“He just tried to kill me,” she points out. The Soldier inclines his head. That is true.

“You scared him,” Steve counters. Also true.

“If he’s so unstable that he tries to murder someone just because he’s startled—”

“Jesus Christ, Nat, you broke into our apartment while we were asleep, what did you expect him to do? You can’t seriously expect me to believe you wouldn’t do the same thing if someone you didn’t know did that to you.  _ Especially _ if Hydra were actively tracking you down.”

“I didn’t know he would be here,” she defends, and Steve scoffs.

“That’s why you don’t show up in people’s living rooms at night without calling first!”

There is silence for a few moments, the two of them likely staring each other down. Then: “I didn’t know you could paint.”

Steve sighs so loudly that the Soldier would have been able to hear it all the way out in the living room even without enhanced hearing. “Yeah, well, there’s a lot you don’t know about me. I’m not turning him into SHIELD, Natasha. And I sure as hell won’t let you try to either.”

“I know,” she admits, and the tension lacing the air of the apartment noticeably diminishes. “I just want you to be prepared for anything. Hydra wants their toy back, and they’re gonna come for him eventually. You might not be able to handle them on your own.”

“Why are you here, Nat?” Steve asks, no longer sounding angry. Just tired. “If you really did just want to give me a lead you would have called.”

There’s a brief pause. “Fury sent me. There’s a new mission, too risky to discuss over the phone. There’s signs of Hydra regrouping in Washington.”

Steve sighs again. “When do we head out?”

“Two hours. We’ll take a Quinjet from Stark Tower.”

The Soldier stands and drops his nearly empty mug, the glass hitting the ground with a clunk but not breaking. Steve is out of the guest room and in front of him in an instant. “You’re leaving?” he accuses before Steve can speak.

Steve winces. “Buck…” he starts, and the Soldier knows that’s a  _ yes _ .

The Soldier squares his jaw and twirls around to march back into his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him, not caring how childish he knows he’s being. He grabs Captain then drops to the floor to roll under the bed, something he only does when he’s upset, something he hasn’t done in months. The dark confined space both relaxes his mind and causes dread to swell up in his body, but the contrasting sensations are always enough to drag him from his thoughts, if only a little bit.

Five minutes later the door snicks open softly, then clicks closed. The Soldier watches Steve’s bare feet as they halt mid-step, then resume their journey towards the bed, soon followed by the sight of knees, then Steve himself as he lowers himself down to the floor. “Bucky,” he says softly, peering under the bed with sad, earnest eyes.

The Soldier sniffs and hates himself for being so emotional, for not maintaining his cool, calm demeanor of the past. “I don’t want you to leave,” he declares, voice steady but only just. “Not now. Not after what just happened.  _ Especially _ not on a mission against Hydra.”

Steve frowns sympathetically and reaches a hand out, laying it on top of the Soldier’s where it is clutching Captain to his chest. “I know, Buck. I don’t wanna leave either. But this mission sounds important, and Nat’s gonna need my help. I don’t have a choice.”

“Let me come with you,” the Soldier demands. “I can help. I’ll protect you.” He doesn’t want to fight, doesn’t want to go on a mission ever again, doesn’t want to see Hydra even more. But if Steve got hurt and he wasn’t there, if something happened to him…

Steve shakes his head. “No, Buck. That’s not a good idea. I’m gonna be just fine, I don’t need any extra protection.”

The Soldier twists his lips and turns over so that his back is facing Steve, curling up into a ball wrapped around Captain.

“Bucky,” Steve tries, and the Soldier shakes his head and doesn’t turn around. Steve sighs.

The floor creaks as Steve hefts himself back up.

The Soldier waits a moment before turning back around again. He listens to the sounds of Steve changing clothes and packing, tracks his feet as they move around the room, fetching a duffle bag and a set of clothes. Sunlight is streaming in through the window now, turning the deep brown wood floor golden with its glow. Eventually the sounds and the movements stop as Steve stands still in the middle of the room.

“Do I at least get a goodbye hug?” he asks, voice somehow equally hopeful and defeated.

The Soldier rolls back out from under the bed, ignoring the pain that lances through his shoulder as he does. As he stands he tosses Captain onto the mattress before turning to Steve, who immediately encircles him in his arms. The Soldier hugs him back tightly, buries his face in the crook of his neck to breathe in the scent of him. “Promise me you’ll be safe?”

Steve pulls back and looks at him seriously. “I’ll do my best, Buck. It’s a pretty short mission, just in and out. I should be back late tonight, maybe early tomorrow morning. Can you promise to call me if you need anything?”

The Soldier hesitates and shakes his head, biting at his lip. “I don’t have a phone.”

Steve blinks. “You don’t have a phone? This entire time you’ve been staying here, you haven’t had access to a phone.” The Soldier shakes his head again and Steve drags a hand down his face. “Jesus, alright, remind me to get you one when I get back. I’ll figure something else out for now. Just try not to get in any trouble, at least.”

The Soldier gently hits Steve on the shoulder, the action half-hearted at best. “If we should be concerned about anyone getting into trouble, it’s you,” he points out. Steve rolls his eyes and pulls him into another brief hug.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he promises, grabbing his duffle bag from the bed and slinging the strap over his shoulder. The Solder nods grimly and climbs onto the bed, curling up in the corner with his chin resting on his knees. He stays there for a long time after Steve leaves, after he hears the front door open and shut. He idly considers getting up a making himself breakfast, but his appetite is nonexistent and it doesn’t seem worth the trouble. The sun climbs its way up from the horizon, the shadows on the floor shifting with the light.

The words he heard Natasha say keep swirling through his mind. Many of her statements were accurate, even if the Soldier doesn’t want them to be. As much progress as he has been making with Sam, he is still unstable. He experiences mental malfunctions frequently. With that comes the risk that he may lose control and hurt Steve or someone else. Additionally, Hydra is apparently beginning to reestablish itself. They are bound to attempt to reclaim him again, and when they do, they will likely hold no regard for the lives of innocents who get in their way. The Soldier knows with a bone deep certainty that they will do anything, kill anyone, in order to reacquire him.

The Soldier is a danger to those around him. Steve, Sam, Nora, the dogs—anyone really. All of their lives are at risk simply due to their proximity to him.

The plates on the metal arm shift as the Soldier’s heartbeat increases with anxiety. He stands and paces the room, trying to examine and evaluate the situation accurately and calmly, despite the panic building in his brain.

He is putting the things he cares about most at risk. If not from himself, then from Hydra, or any other government agency eager to get their hands on him. That is not acceptable.

But what can he do? He is already working on mental stability, remains constantly vigilant for any threat, and makes sure to conceal his identity by covering the metal arm whenever he goes out. It’s not enough of course, not against the resources Hydra has access to. They will find him eventually. And when they do, no matter how hard he will try, there is no guarantee that he will succeed in protecting those around him.

No, the best way, the  _ only _ way, to ensure that the people he cares about are safe is to leave them.

The thought hits him like a physical blow to the chest, and he sits down hard on the bed, a whoosh of air escaping his lungs. He doesn’t want to leave. He’s finally, against all odds,  _ happy _ . And he thinks that maybe Steve is, too. The Soldier doesn’t want to throw all of that away.

But he doesn’t want to throw his regard for Steve’s safety away either.

The Soldier drags his hands up his face roughly, brushing away the tears of frustration forming in his eyes, and tangles them in his hair, tugging harshly at it in the hope that the pain will focus his thoughts.  _ Think _ . He needs to  _ think _ . There must be a way to keep everyone safe without leaving the only home he ever remembers having. There must be a way to keep his promise.

But there isn’t.

He spends what feels like hours mulling over the situation, considering different plans and scenarios, but leaving remains the choice with the highest probability of success. He simply doesn’t have access to the resources he would need to keep Steve and everyone around him safe. Yes, leaving will  _ devastate _ him, and likely Steve as well. But if he were to remain, if Steve were to get hurt, or  _ worse,  _ because of his selfishness…

He wouldn’t survive it. And in all likelihood, Steve might not survive it either. This—him leaving everything he loves and losing contact with the most important person in his life, in the  _ world _ — _ that _ they can both survive, if only physically.

And really, when it comes to protecting Steve… well, there was really never much of a choice in the first place, was there?

⭑ ⭑  ⍟ ⭑ ⭑

This time he packs a duffle bag along with his old backpack. It is unlikely he will actually need anything more than he can carry on his back, but at the very least, knowing that he’d left with enough resources will be a small source of comfort for Steve. He allows himself the luxury of taking his two favorite books as well as a shirt from the hamper that still holds Steve’s scent. The smell will fade away within a week, but at least he’ll have it until then.

He leaves Captain on the bed. Captain doesn’t deserve a life on the streets, and if anyone will need his comfort, it’s Steve. The Soldier’s heart twists as he imagines how Steve will feel when he comes home to find the apartment empty, what Steve will think. He will be worried, no doubt. Scared. Confused. Angry. Hurt. Devastated. All of the things Steve should never be.

( _ But at least he’ll be safe.) _

The Soldier tries not to think about all this. He leaves the pajamas in the drawer but takes the pile of cash Steve had given him. Leaves the containers of bubble bath, but takes the toothpaste. Leaves the ice cream, but takes the protein bars. He considers taking his Happy List, but what would be the point? Happiness isn’t something he expects to find without Steve.

He takes one last look around the apartment. The mess from earlier had been cleared away, the spilled tea wiped up, the mug in the sink, his knives left in the middle of the dining room table. The Soldier picks them up and shoves them into his pockets. He considers leaving one for Steve, but Steve has his own weapons, even if he is stubborn about not wanting to use anything but his shield. Besides, with the Soldier gone, hopefully Steve won’t have a need for weapons any time soon.

He runs a mental checklist in his head, tries to think of anything else he may need, but there is nothing. He is as ready as he can be. He angrily brushes away the wetness on his cheeks, tells himself that this is the right choice, no matter how wrong it feels. He can do this. He can do this, for Steve.

The click of the door seems louder than usual as it closes behind him.

⭑ ⭑  ⍟ ⭑ ⭑

He gets as far as the end of the hallway. When the doors to the elevator slide open, Sam Wilson walks through them and straight into the Soldier’s chest.

“Whoops, sorry,” he says, fumbling to catch his phone as it slips from his hands at the impact. He secures it in his grasp and glances up at the Soldier, who has frozen in panic, and blinks. “Barnes?” Sam’s gaze travels from the Soldier’s face, undoubtedly pale and tear stained, down to where the Soldier’s fist is gripping tight at the handles of the duffle bag. Sam cocks an eyebrow. “Going somewhere?”

The Soldier swallows. “Yes,” he admits, because there is little point in denying it now.

“You planning on following Steve on his mission?” Sam asks, gaze calculating.

The Soldier hesitates, because that would serve as an excellent cover. But the decision takes a moment too long and Sam’s face hardens. “Sam—”

“What are you doing, Barnes?” Sam’s voice is stern, the tone of his voice and look in his eyes making it clear that he will not accept anything but the truth and that he already disapproves of what the Soldier will have to say.

Tears prickle at the Soldier’s eyes and he feels his face heating up. He had wanted to make a clean getaway, had wanted to avoid seeing the anger and disappointment that would be felt by Sam and Steve at his decision to leave. This is something he  _ has _ to do, and Sam isn’t making it any easier. “I have to leave,” he says desperately, begging Sam with his eyes not to try and stop him. Sam doesn’t listen.

“Yeah, no. Turn your ass around and go back to the apartment. Now.”

“Sam—” the Soldier tries to protest, and Sam shakes his head and points a finger down the hallway.

“Nope. We are not discussing this out in the middle of the hall, and you are not leaving without us at least sitting down and talking about it first. I ain’t gonna fold on this, buddy.”

The Soldier glances away and gnaws on his lower lip. He could easily overpower Sam, of course. He doesn’t have to obey him. But Sam is his  _ friend _ , and the Soldier does not wish to hurt him. He sighs and drops his shoulders with defeat before turning around to return to the apartment as Sam ordered.

When they get in, Sam wordlessly points him to the couch. The Soldier sits and drops his bags by his feet and slumps forward, his elbows on his knees and his face buried in his palms. He can hear Sam rattling around in the kitchen, and the longer each of them goes without saying anything the more the tension in the air spikes up. The Soldier looks up when he hears Sam enter the living room, carrying two cups of tea, both of which he sets on the coffee table.

It is barely afternoon, and the Soldier has already been given two cups of tea. That, more than anything, shows how dreadful this day has been.

“So,” Sam starts, “Steve texted me. Asked me to drop by and check up on you. He seemed awfully worried about you.” He sweeps his gaze pointedly over the Soldier’s hunched form, then down to the bags on the floor. “Seems like he was right to be. Talk to me, Barnes. What’s up?”

The Soldier looks at him beseechingly. “I have to leave, Sam. Please, I  _ have _ to.”

Sam holds up his hands. “Hey, if you really wanna leave, I’m not gonna stop you. You can get up and walk out the door right now if you really wanted to. All I’m asking is that you talk to me about it first, so we can be sure this is something you won’t regret.”

The Soldier slumps a bit with relief and nods. That sounds acceptable. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Sam parrots. “So… why  _ do _ you want to leave?”

“I don’t  _ want _ to,” the Soldier stresses. “I wish I could stay here. But I  _ can’t _ . I have to keep Steve safe, no matter what. Nothing is more important to me than that.”

Sam tilts his head. “How would your leaving make Steve safe?”

“Hydra. They’re reestablishing themselves. They will come for me, eventually. And when they do, I don’t want anyone to get hurt, especially not Steve or you, or Nora and the dogs. And even if Hydra doesn’t come for me—which they will—there are other government agencies after me. I don’t want Steve to get in trouble with the law because of me. And I don’t want to risk having another mental malfunction where I hurt him again,” he implores. “There are too many factors, too many ways he can be harmed. It’s better if I go. I have to go.”

“Man, what got you thinking about all of this? Two days ago you were doing just fine,” Sam complains, shaking his head.

“The woman, Natasha. I overheard her expressing these concerns to Steve, but he didn’t listen to her.”

Sam’s face hardens and he curses. “Damn that woman. I’m gonna have to have a talk with her.”

The Soldier shakes his head. “She was  _ right _ , Sam. I’m putting everyone in danger just by being here.”

“Steve is  _ always _ in danger, Barnes. That’s just how being a superhero works,” Sam argues. He sighs in frustration when the Soldier remains unconvinced. “Look, man, can I tell you something? The second I met Steve, I could tell the guy was miserable. He put up a good front, maybe fooled most people into thinking he was alright, but he wasn’t. He had given up on life. The only time I ever saw something even resembling hope is when we found out you were alive. And since you’ve showed up?” Sam shakes his head in disbelief. “The dude’s a completely different person. He  _ smiles _ , he  _ laughs _ , and I’d never seen him do either of those things without faking it before. You make him happy, Barnes, and I’m willing to bet it’s the same for you.”

The Soldier hates to think about Steve being sad all those years after he came out of the ice. The Soldier hates thinking about Steve ever being sad again. And yet… “I want him to be happy,” he admits, “but I want him to be alive even more. I  _ need _ him to be alive.”

Sam sighs. “If you truly think this is the best decision, then there’s nothing I’m gonna be able to say that’ll change your mind. But I want you to do just one thing. If not for me, then for Steve.” He waits until the Soldier nods. “I want you to wait another day before deciding. You’ve been through a lot today, and your emotions are running high. This is a big choice, and I want to be sure your making it with a clear mind.”

The Soldier is already shaking his head. “I can’t, Steve will be back by then—”

“And you don’t think he deserves an explanation? You think he deserves to have his best friend walk out on him without even saying goodbye, without giving him a reason? You’re really gonna put him through that?”

The Soldier bites down hard on his lower lip. Sam is right. Steve, more than anyone, deserves more than that. Sam must see his defenses crumbling because he rushes to continue.

“Just sit down with him and explain what you’re thinking. Giving him a chance to convince you to stay, or hell, even just say goodbye and get some closure.”

“You could tell him,” the Soldier says weakly. “You could explain why I left.”

Sam shakes his head. “I could, but I won’t. This is something Steve needs to hear from you, not me.”

The Soldier sighs. He knows Sam is correct. Knows that this is something he has to do. But it will be so  _ hard _ , to look Steve in the eyes and tell him that he’s leaving him after he promised he wouldn’t.

The Soldier will do it, though. For Steve, as always, he will do anything.

⭑ ⭑  ⍟ ⭑ ⭑

Sam stays with him for the entire day, and when he gets a text from Steve informing him that he won’t make it back until tomorrow, he decides to spend the night, too. The Soldier can’t tell whether he does this more to offer support or just to ensure that he doesn’t change his mind and disappear before Steve returns, but he appreciates it nonetheless.

They talk about the way the Soldier’s brain had malfunctioned when he was being shocked by the device Natasha had used. Sam explains that the sensation had most likely triggered a flashback, and that is what caused the Soldier to temporarily forget where he was, not the electricity itself.

The Soldier thinks he will miss this, Sam helping him. The Soldier will try to continue to work on his mental functioning when he’s on his own of course, but he doubts it will be the same.

That evening, he takes a nice, long bath, luxuriating in the process of it. He hopes the memory of being warm and clean will offer him some comfort when he’s back to living on the cold, squalid streets. He tries not to think about it.

He and Sam watch a movie called  _ The Martian _ , which the Soldier enjoys tremendously. Afterwards, as he brushes away the popcorn stuck in his teeth, he thinks that movies are another thing he will miss.

And when he goes to bed that night clutches Captain in his arms, he thinks he will miss his room, too, with all the little decorations and knick-knacks he has acquired. Most of all, though, he will miss Steve. He  _ already _ misses Steve, misses the way Steve always ends up clinging to him like an octopus at some point in the night, the way Steve’s body heat warms him to his core, the way Steve’s breaths feel when they puff against his skin. Sleeping without Steve is much harder than he expected, and he has only been without him for a single night. The Soldier can only imagine what it will be like to sleep weeks from now, likely on a hard park bench or the floor of an alleyway.

Tears once again slip from the Soldier’s eyes. He hates how emotional he has allowed himself to become, how weak. His mission, he realized some time ago, is and always has been to keep Steve safe. That is his primary directive. It must be followed, no matter the cost.

⭑ ⭑  ⍟ ⭑ ⭑

By the time the room begins to light up with the glow of the sun the following morning, the Soldier is feeling strained and ragged, as though his skin is made of plastic stretched thin, and his insides are made of broken glass. He doesn’t think he managed to acquire a single second of sleep over the course of the night. He seriously considers pulling the covers back up over his head and hiding for the rest of the day, but he knows that some things cannot be avoided.

He staggers out into the living room and makes a beeline straight for the kitchen. He prepares a cup of tea carefully, his movements sluggish but quiet, not wanting to wake Sam with the noise. He takes a sip from his mug and sighs. He is beginning to grow tired of the taste of tea. It feels as though it is all he has had to drink for the last twenty-four hours.

But the herbs do their job and relax his body, if only a little bit, and for that he is grateful. He shoulders are sore, both from the now-healed stab wound, and from the knots forming deep in the muscles there. He rolls them as he refills his mug and carries it over to the dining room table.

Sam emerges from Steve’s old room some time after that, stretching his arms over his head with a groan. “Man,” he says emphatically, “that mattress is  _ amazing _ . Maybe I should sleep here all the time.”

The Soldier thinks that isn’t a bad idea. It might help Steve to not have to live in the apartment alone.

Sam frowns at him and shakes his head. “The day’s barely started and you’re already moping. I swear, you and Steve are cut from the same damn cloth,” he complains as he heads into the kitchen to rifle through the fridge. “You already eat breakfast?”

“No.”

“Want me to make you something?”

The Soldier feels nausea rise in his stomach at the thought of eating anything. “No.”

Sam turns around and eyes him with concern. “You sure? I know you don’t feel like it, but it’ll help you feel better.”

The Soldier shakes his head. “I am certain. Thank you.”

Sam sighs and mutters something under his breath. He retrieves one of the old nutritional pudding cups from the back of the cabinet and tosses it at the Soldier, who catches it instinctively, along with the spoon that follows. “At least eat that,” Sam orders, and the Soldier scowls, but does as he says.

The day simultaneously passes quickly and drags on, the Soldier watching the clock in the living room anxiously, both anticipating and dreading Steve’s return. Sam tries to distract him with TV but fails; the Soldier’s fretting too strong even for  _ How It’s Made _ to soothe him.

It’s nearing eleven when the lock in the front door finally clicks. The Soldier stands, muscles tense, and he watches the door as it swings open to reveal a tried-looking Steve. Steve shuts the door behind him and grins as he sees the Soldier standing there. He drops his duffle to the floor but keeps the paper bag in his hand.

“Hey, Buck!” he greets enthusiastically, then tacks on a slightly less enthusiastic, “And Sam.” The Soldier doesn’t move as Steve strides towards him and envelopes him in a hug. The Soldier can’t help the way his muscles relax at the contact.

“Are you injured?” he asks worriedly, eyes scanning over Steve’s body even before he asks.

Steve rolls his eyes and shakes his head, still happy, seemingly oblivious to the nervous tension in the room. “I’m  _ fine _ , Buck, just like I told you I’d be. Barely even got a scratch, and it healed up already. I did miss you though,” he says, and the Soldier feels a stab in his heart. Steve doesn’t notice, his focus intent on fishing something out of the paper bag. “I got you something from one of the little shops in Tony’s tower,” he explains as he pulls it out. “It’s supposed to be the best bubble bath you can buy, according to the lady who works there.”

He holds out the expensive looking bottle eagerly, looking proud and pleased. The Soldier feels his face crumple.

Steve looks at him with alarm and reaches out to touch him, but the Soldier staggers back out of his reach. The back of his knees hit the couch and he sits down hard. “Bucky?” Steve asks apprehensively as the Soldier covers his face in his hands and shakes his head. “What’s wrong?”

“Steve,” Sam says, sounding grave. “I think you should sit down.”

The Soldier rubs away the moisture in his eyes and looks up to see Steve staring at him worriedly as he sets the bottle down on the table and sinks down onto the couch. “Buck?” he says, voice concerned.

The Soldier looks to Sam desperately for help, but Sam just inclines his head as if to say ‘go on.’ The Soldier takes in a shuddering breath and turns back to Steve.

“I have to leave.”

The reaction is instant. Steve’s eyebrows scrunch in confusion, then smooth out as his face goes carefully blank, his skin paling. The Soldier can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. When he speaks, his voice is flat. “What are you talking about, Buck?”

The Soldier wrings his hands. “I have to leave,” he repeats. “My bags are already packed. I was going to leave yesterday, but Sam said I should wait.” He admits that last part reluctantly, certain it will upset Steve. He is correct.

Steve’s face twists and he looks away, shoves a hand over his eyes. “You were going to leave. Without even telling me,” he accuses, voice still devoid of emotion until suddenly it isn’t. “Why?” he asks, and the word sounds strangled. “Is this about Natasha? Because I swear Buck, she’s not going to turn you in, I talked to her already—”

“It’s not,” the Soldier cuts in, trying to make his voice gentle, to offer what comfort he can. He doesn’t think it works. “Not really. I overheard what she said, about me putting you— _ everyone _ —at risk. It’s better if I leave now, before anyone can get hurt.”

“You don’t get to decide that!” Steve stands up from the couch and flings his arms out in frustration. The Soldier barely manages not to flinch back at the shouting and the sudden movement. “You don’t get to decide what’s better for me! I can protect myself, dammit, Buck—you  _ promised _ ! You  _ promised _ you wouldn’t do this to me!”

“Steve,” Sam cuts in, and Steve whirls on him.

“No!” he shouts. “No, Sam, he doesn’t get to do this. He promised me, not even three months ago he promised me; he said he wouldn’t leave me again, said he’d stay till the end of the line. He promised!”

Sam puts his palms out placidly. “Steve, I understand you’re upset. I am too. But if he really wants to leave, you can’t stop him. This is his mistake to make. He’s had too many choices taken away from him, and he’s not your prisoner.”

For a split-second Steve’s fury seems to build, face flushing with anger. But it disappears just as fast. He slumps in defeat instead, exuding hopelessness. He glances at the Soldier, eyes heavy with despair and betrayal, then looks away and shakes his head. “ _ Fuck _ ,” he bites out, then spins on his heel and marches to his old bedroom.

“Steve,” the Soldier says softly, but Steve either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t listen. The door slams shut behind him with a bang.

The Soldier feels… he feels…

“Hey,” Sam says, “You okay?”

The Soldier breaks. “No,” he sobs, curling in on himself. He wonders what a sight he must make, pale and shaking, face blotchy and eyes red rimmed from all the crying.

Sam sighs and moves to sit next to the Soldier, laying an arm across his shoulders comfortingly. He doesn’t speak. Just rubs his hand along the Soldier’s back, offering the little support he can.

“I don’t wanna go,” the Soldier whines. And he doesn’t. He really, desperately doesn’t. He doesn’t want to break his promise, doesn’t want to abandon Steve, doesn’t want to ruin both of their happiness.

“Barnes, man, I’m telling you, I really don’t think you  _ have _ to.”

The Soldier makes a noise of protest in the back of his throat and uncurls himself slightly so he can look at Sam. Sam goes on before the Soldier can speak.

“No, just listen to me. I’ve been thinking about this. Who’s to say Steve’s not in danger without you here, anyway? Who’s to say Hydra won’t send a team to take him out? Out of everyone, he’s the main person who can succeed in taking them down, and he has all the reason to do so—especially for what they did to you. You think Hydra doesn’t know that? You think they won’t do their best to eliminate him? And you won’t even be here to help protect him if that happens.”

The Soldier blanches, horrified at the thought, but Sam doesn’t stop.

“And you know what? Same thing goes for me. Hydra knows I helped take down Project Insight. Why wouldn’t they come after me, too? You aren’t putting Steve and me in any more danger than we’re already in.”

“But me being here just increases the risk,” the Soldier insists, breath still hiccupping but his mind finally clearing somewhat.

Sam shrugs. “I realize that. Steve does too. And you know what? Neither of us care. Because we’d rather put ourselves at risk and have you in our lives than go without you to be safer. That’s how friendship works. And hey, if you’re really concerned about it, maybe we can all work together and figure out some way to decrease that risk. You have options, Barnes.”

The Soldier tries to calm down and think about Sam’s words. “You truly believe it could work? Me staying here?”

Sam looks at him and nods solemnly. “I do.”

Hope begins to stir in the Soldier’s chest, only to get crushed by a wave of regret. “It’s too late,” he laments. “I already ruined everything. Steve must hate me now.”

“Man, I don’t think there’s a single thing you could do to  _ ever _ make Steve hate you. He’s pissed off right now, sure. Probably hurt, too. But he doesn’t hate you—that I can promise you.”

The Soldier gnaws on his cheek, biting hard enough that he tastes blood on his tongue.

“I’m gonna head home and let you think about this,” Sam says, “But if you do decide to leave—which I  _ really _ hope you don’t, I want you to call me first so I can come say goodbye. Alright?”

The Soldier nods and Sam claps him on the back. “Good luck,” he offers.

The Soldier watches as he grabs his keys from the table by the entryway, carefully stepping over Steve’s discarded duffle bag. He opens the door and pauses to wave, then shuts it behind him.

Nearly the very instant after the front door shuts, Steve’s door bursts open, Steve himself bursting from the room. “Buck, wait!” he yells, and the Soldier blinks in alarm as Steve rushes towards the front door.

“Steve?”

Steve whirls around to look at him, eyes desperate and face tear stained. “ _ Buck _ ,” he chokes out. “You’re still here. I thought…”

The look on Steve’s face makes the Soldier’s heart feel like it’s malfunctioning. He shakes his head. “Sam left.”

“Oh,” Steve breathes, visibly deflating with relief. “Okay.”

They stare at each other in awkward silence, until Steve sighs and moves to sit on the couch next to the Soldier. Then they sit in awkward silence for a bit longer, until neither of them can stand it any longer and they both rush to speak.

“I don’t—”

“I shouldn’t—”

They both cut off and look at each other in surprise. The Soldier gives Steve a small, strained smile. “You go first.”

Steve blows out a long breath of air and nods, then shifts to face the Soldier more fully, expression resolute. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that, and I’m sorry. I let my emotions get the best of me when I shouldn’t have. I’m asking you right now not to, but if you really wanna go…” Steve’s face crumples before he composes himself. “Well, that’s your choice. I told you right from the start that I’m never going to make you stay if it’s not what you want.”

“I  _ don’t _ want to go,” the Soldier admits, voice sad. “Leaving you is the last thing I want to do. But if you got hurt because of me… I wouldn’t survive it, Stevie.”

“I can watch out for myself,” Steve protests firmly, and the Soldier can’t help but snort.

“Bullshit. You never watch your damn back,” he quips, then blinks in surprise at his own words, having not meant to say them. It does get Steve to huff out a laugh though, so the Soldier counts that as a win.

There is silence for a moment before the Soldier speaks again. “Sam thinks I don’t need to leave. He thinks that perhaps we can figure out another way to keep everyone safe.”

“Of course we can, Buck! I’m sure we can come up with something, and if not… Well, I can always ask Tony and Nat to help us out. They’d probably have tons of ideas,” Steve says eagerly, almost desperately, and the Soldier works his jaw and nods slowly.

“Alright. If there’s another way to keep you safe, I’ll stay,” he concedes.

Steve launches himself into the Soldier and hugs him tightly, hard enough to bruise a normal human. “God, Buck,  _ thank you _ ,” he gushes. “We’ll figure it out, alright? I promise.”

⭑ ⭑  ⍟ ⭑ ⭑


	9. Chapter 9

Much to the relief of Steve and the Soldier, they do. Steve calls Nat and Sam, and all of them sit down together and strategize.

When she arrives, Natasha pulls the Soldier aside and asks if she can speak to him privately. The Soldier looks to Steve, and when he nods at the Soldier encouragingly, the Soldier agrees and takes her to his room. She scans the area with a blank gaze, but the Soldier thinks he detects a smile in her eyes as she takes in the stars and the rockets and Captain.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “For scaring you. And for stabbing you. And electrocuting you.”

The Soldier nods. “Thank you. I apologize for attacking you.”

She smiles crookedly at him and shakes her head. “It’s not the first time that’s happened. I can handle it.”

A memory surfaces in the Soldier’s mind, just out of reach, only images of bright red hair and gunfire and blood leaking through. The Soldier blinks. “I know you,” he states, brows furrowed. “Is… is that how? Did I hurt you?”

She shrugs. “Once or twice,” she divulges.

The Soldier frowns, upset by the revelation. He does not like to think about what he did under Hydra’s control. He’s hurt so many people, and to think he hurt one of Steve’s friends…

Natasha places a gentle hand on his arm, and he looks up at her in surprise. “Don’t worry about it. You weren’t in control of your actions, and I know that. I have quite a bit of red in my ledger myself. I know what it’s like, to be used as a weapon.”

“Hydra?” the Soldier asks, eyeing her carefully.

She just smiles secretively. “That’s a conversation for another time,” she dismisses, and walks towards the door only to stop with her hand on the knob. “I don’t trust you,” she says, turning back to look at him. “Not yet. But Steve does, and I do trust him, so I suppose that will have to be enough. That said: if you hurt him, if you betray him, I won’t hesitate to kill you.”

Her face is calm, cool, but the Soldier can see the truth of the statement burning in her gaze. Strangely, he finds the threat more comforting than worrisome. It is nice to know that Steve has others looking out for him. “That is fair. If I hurt Steve again, I wouldn’t hesitate to kill me either.”

She nods, face giving nothing away, but the Soldier can see the approval in her eyes.

Strategizing involves a lot of arguing and negotiating and worrying. Steve vehemently refuses to even consider placing a kill switch in the Soldier to use in the event that the Soldier loses control, but he does begrudgingly agree to keep a sedative dart on him and to use it on the Soldier should the need arise (which, he continues to argue, won’t happen). Sam objects to the Soldier’s plan to never leave the apartment in hope of keeping the general public safe, but does help the Soldier come up with some more ways to disguise his identity. The Soldier rejects Natasha’s idea of having Shield agents follow him around (too much risk of Hydra infiltration), but does agree to avoid going out alone whenever possible.

In the end, they are all somewhat satisfied with their plan. Natasha will begin planting leads and false trails on the Soldier’s location in an effort to confuse Hydra. Steve will speak to Tony about upgrading security measures on the apartment. They will each have a panic button on their phones that can be used in emergencies to alert the others and send their locations. And, perhaps most importantly, Steve and Sam will keep an eye on the Soldier and take whatever non-lethal actions are necessary to prevent him from harming anyone should he have an episode, or fall back under Hydra’s control.

There is still some risk involved, but overall the Soldier is feeling much calmer about the situation than before. Sam smiles at him and nudges the Soldier in the ribs with his elbow when Steve gets up to show Natasha out.

“See? That wasn’t so hard. Aren’t you glad you have me around to keep you from making stupid decisions?”

“Yes,” the Soldier replies, and he really does mean it. He will have to make Sam another card. Maybe buy him a cake and flowers, too.

⭑ ⭑  ⍟ ⭑ ⭑

Steve behaves differently towards the Soldier after his abandoned attempt to leave. He is still friendly—still laughs with the Soldier and brushes the Soldier’s hair and watches TV with him—but he’s just…more distant, somehow. More reserved.

The Soldier frets over this development. He had hoped, that with the new plan in place, that everything could return to normal. That they could go back to being happy and (relatively) carefree.

This is not the case.

The Soldier’s attempts to cheer Steve up seem to help a bit, but not as much as they usually do. Steve has reverted back to gazing sadly at the Soldier when he thinks the Soldier isn’t looking, the way he used to do when the Soldier was still the Asset. And he doesn’t touch the Soldier as much as he had done before either, doesn’t lay his head in the Soldier’s lap or brush a hand along the Soldier’s head or shoulders when he walks past. But at night—at night he clings to the Soldier tighter than ever, holds onto him like the Soldier is a liferaft and he’s lost at sea. It is…concerning, to say the least.

When the Soldier brings these concerns to Sam, Sam frowns at him sympathetically and shakes his head.

“He’s hurt, man. He thought he was going to lose you again.”

The Soldier swallows and looks away. “I didn’t mean to hurt him,” he says, voice small and remorseful.

“I know that,” Sam reassures, “and I’m sure Steve does too. But that doesn’t change how he’s feeling right now.”

The Soldier looks up at Sam pleadingly. “Tell me how to fix it. Tell me how to make him happy again.”

Sam sighs. “Look, Barnes, it’s not that simple. He just needs time. All you can do is try to be there for him, show him that you’re dedicated, try to earn his trust again.”

The Soldier nods slowly. He can do that. He can prove his loyalty.

Over the next few days, the Soldier treats Steve extra nicely. He prepares Steve’s favorite foods, forces him into taking another bath, and tries to remain by Steve’s side as often as possible. Steve gives him looks that makes the Soldier suspect Steve is onto him, but Steve doesn’t mention the extra treatment, just smiles obligingly and goes along with it.

Sam had thought it would be wise for the Soldier to meet Tony before he comes and installs the new security, so that the Soldier could feel more at ease with the man coming into their house and installing unknown equipment. The Soldier had agreed, and Steve had called Tony to see which day they could stop by.

It isn’t until that day, when the Soldier is standing in the middle of Stark’s lab and eyeing all the robots and machines in mystified wonder, that an idea occurs to him. He mulls it over in his mind, weighing the risks and implications. It feels frightening to think about, but also  _ right _ , and when he glances over at Steve, he knows that it needs to be done.

Decision made, the Soldier tunes back into the conversation just as Stark finishes complaining to Steve about how he didn’t get to help take down Project Insight. Steve uncrosses his arms to place his hands on his hips and rolls his eyes.

“Are you done? Because we have more important things to discuss right now, Tony.”

Tony scoffs and lays a hand over his chest dramatically. “Are you saying my feelings aren’t important to you, Cap? Really, I’m hurt, I—”

“ _ Tony _ ,” Steve barks, and Stark sighs.

“Yeah, yeah, you need security on your apartment, I know, I’ve already started putting something together. It’s like a mini-Jarvis, except, you know, less complex because it doesn’t have an entire tower to operate. I’ve also designed electronic shields that cover the whole perimeter of your apartment building that should hopefully make it immune to breaches in the walls,” he rambles. “Although, you know, one way to ensure your apartment is secure is to  _ keep your damn windows locked _ , Rogers, I mean really,  _ you’re _ supposed to be the brightest strategic mind of the twentieth century?”

“I keep them locked!” Steve protests, and the Soldier eyes him skeptically. Steve flushes.

Stark shakes his head and clucks disapprovingly. “How very un-American of you to lie, Captain. Oh, who am I kidding, America was built on lies. Anyhow, was that all you’ll be needing? I’ve got places to be, coffee to drink, robots to build—”

“I would like to make a request,” the Soldier declares. Both men look at him, Steve with surprise and Stark with intrigue.

“Oh? State your needs, Robocop; your wish is my command.”

The Soldier frowns (he is not a cop, and if anything, he is a cyborg, not a robot) but continues. “I would like you to install a GPS in my arm. One that can’t be removed or detected, and one that only Steve would have access to. If that’s possible. Please,” he says, faltering slightly the longer he goes on, unsure if Stark will agree.

“ _ If that’s possible _ ?” Stark parrots incredulously. “Who do you take me for, a third grader? Of course it’s possible, I can—”

“Buck,” Steve cuts in, voice tight, “Can I talk to you for a second? Outside?”

The Soldier bites his lip uncertainly and glances at Stark, who appears to be offended at being interrupted, but nods and follows Steve out of the lab and into the hallway.

“What are you doing, Buck?” Steve asks the moment the door closes, arms crossed.

The Soldier glances up at him through his lashes, wringing his hands behind his back nervously. “You don’t trust me anymore,” he starts, and keeps speaking when Steve tries to object. “No, you don’t. And it’s alright. I understand. I did try to break my promise.” He looks at Steve resolutely, hoping his expression is as earnest as he feels. “I don’t want to break my promise, Stevie. Not ever. And this way, I won’t be able to.”

“Bucky,” Steve sighs, “You don’t have to do this. I  _ do _ trust you, I just… I’m scared. Of losing you again.”

The Soldier lifts his jaw defiantly. “I want to. This way, you’ll always know where I am. And besides, it could be useful, I think, in case Hydra manages to capture me again. Or if I lose control.”

“That won’t happen,” Steve says stubbornly. “But…alright. If this is really something you want to do, well… I mean, to be honest, I would appreciate having this as a backup in case something goes wrong. But I don’t want you to feel pressured—”

“I don’t,” the Soldier reassures. “It will make me feel better as well, knowing that you can always come get me.”

Steve blows out a long breath. “Okay, yeah. Alright. But if you ever ask me not to use it, I won’t,” he vows, and the Soldier nods in thanks, though he doubts the promise will be necessary. 

When the walk back into the lab, Stark looks up from the pile of metal he’s tinkering with. “So, is the GPS thing a go or…?”

“Yes,” Steve says, “But we need it to be as secure as possible. We can’t risk anyone else being able to access the signal.”

Stark frowns and tilts his head. “Shouldn’t be an issue. I’ll make it so it requires some of your biometrics and like, a bajillion passwords. And I’ll go ahead and make it so that it can only be accessed when you’re physically inside the tower, just to be sure. Do you wanna plan to do it on the same day I go to your apartment to set everything up? I can just bring whatever I need.”

Steve looks at the Soldier questioningly, and the Soldier nods. “That is acceptable. Thank you,” he says sincerely, and Stark clears his throat and looks away.

“Yeah, sure, you’re forever in my debt, whatever. Now are we done? Is this done? Can you leave?”

“_Thank_ you, Tony,” Steve says with a grin, “I’m _so_ _grateful_, Tony, you can’t even _imagine_—”

“Out,” Tony commands, pointing at the door. Steve smiles mischievously, but obediently leads the Soldier back out. The Soldier looks to Steve inquiringly and Steve grins and shakes his head.

“He hates being thanked,” Steve explains. “The guy’s ego is bigger than the sun, but he can’t take a compliment. Anyway, what did you think of him? I know he’s a bit strange, but I really do trust him.”

The Soldier nods. “He is acceptable. You have a good choice in friends.”

Steve grins broadly at him. “Can’t argue with that,” he replies.

The Soldier wonders if one day, he might be able to consider them his friends as well. He has Steve, and Sam, and he really has no reason or right to ask for more, but…it would be nice, he thinks. To have a family.

⭑ ⭑  ⍟ ⭑ ⭑

Stark comes over that very same week, waltzing through the front door with a harried looking young man trailing after him, whose arms are laden with heavy looking boxes. The Soldier eyes the boy’s quivering muscles warily and moves to help him place the boxes on the table. The young man smiles at him gratefully and sighs with relief once the weight is gone.

“Is that all, Mister Stark?” the man asks, and Tony glances at him in surprise from where he’s rambling to Steve about something.

“Huh? Oh yeah, great job, Tim, I’ll call you when you need to bring the car back around. Go, I dunno, buy yourself lunch or something.”

“My names Tom,” he mutters weakly, then shakes his head. “Thank you, Mister Stark.”

Stark waves a hand dismissively and rolls his eyes once the man is gone. “Interns, you know?” he says sagely. The Soldier does not know, but he nods his head anyway.

“So!” Stark claps his hands together excitedly. “What’s first on the menu? Shields? Surveillance equipment? Security system? GPS?”

“Whatever you wanna do, Tony,” Steve says, then frowns down at his phone as it pings in his hand.

Stark raises an eyebrow. “Everything alright, Capsicle?”

“Yes,” Steve replies, not looking up from the screen. The phone pings again and Steve winces. “Actually, no. I’m really sorry to do this, but can we reschedule? I guess Nat needs my help with something down at SHIELD—”

“Wait, SHIELD still exists?”

“Uh, yeah, Coulson and Hill rebuilt it. And Fury too, I guess,” Steve explains dismissively, tapping out a message on the screen.

“Figures,” Tony huffs. “Well, anyway, there’s no point in me leaving. You go ahead and do your secret spy stuff, and Robocop here will keep me company, no biggie.”

Steve looks up and glances at the Soldier worriedly. “That sound alright with you, Buck? It’ll only be a few hours. If not, Tony can just come back later…”

“That is fine,” the Soldier says. Steve slumps a bit in relief but still looks hesitant.

“Are you sure?” he asks again, and sighs when the Soldier nods. “Okay. You have your cellphone, so you can call me if you need anything,” he says as he slips on his shoes. “And if I don’t answer for some reason, just call Sam instead. I’ll be back in no time, I promise.”

The Soldier smiles reassuringly at him. “Yes, Steve,” he says diligently, and Steve finally exits the apartment with a quick wave goodbye. Stark turns to the Soldier with raised eyebrows.

“Is he always like that?”

“Yes,” the Soldier reports solemnly. Stark grins.

“You know what, Robocop? I think I like you. Wanna help me do techy stuff?”

The Soldier nods eagerly. “Yes,” he says again, this time much more enthusiastically, and Stark laughs.

Stark walks him through the process of setting up the motion-detecting cameras and the alarm system and the electronic shields. He shows the Soldier how to check the feeds on Steve’s computer, and how to change the settings for the security system. He also enlists the Soldier’s help in placing a clear film over the outside of the window panes.

“It’s bulletproof,” Stark explains as he squeezes out the bubbles with a plastic tool. “And it’s one way, so you can see out but people can’t see in. I designed it myself.”

The Soldier thinks of how easily he was able to discern Steve’s location from the office building across the street so long ago and nods. “You are very smart,” he remarks.

Stark shrugs dismissively. “Well, I didn’t spend four years getting two Master’s degrees at MIT for nothing.”

The Soldier frowns and looks down at the floor, picking up the discarded tools he finds there and putting them away to keep his hands busy. “Steve says I never finished high school,” he admits softly. Stark looks up from his work to frown at him.

“Hey, look, I didn’t mean—you don’t need to go to school to be smart. I happen to know that being a capable sniper takes some major math and science skills. Don’t sell yourself short, kid.”

The Soldier considers that, then smiles softly. “I suppose that is true. Thank you.” Then, remembering what Steve said about Stark being uncomfortable with being thanked, he changes the subject. “Also, I am not a kid. I am fifty years older than you.”

“Sure thing, grandpa,” Stark agrees, and the Soldier frowns but doesn’t comment further.

Once all the security-related tasks are done, Stark has the Soldier sit at the dining table and gets to work on the GPS. Stark marvels over the Soldier’s arm, excitedly instructing the Soldier to move it this way and that way. The Soldier doesn’t mind. He had been nervous about anyone touching the arm—after all, no except for the Soldier and Steve have done so since his escape from Hydra. But Stark’s process is so different from any of the scientists who had ever worked on it that the Soldier finds himself relaxing.

“So…” Stark says, as he delicately solders the GPS onto one of the interior panels, “Are we gonna talk about the thing, or…? Because like,  _ I _ sure as hell am fine with just ignoring it, but Pepper and my therapist would yell at me if I don’t, so maybe we should because Pepper can be scary when she yells.”

The Soldier frowns in confusion. “What thing?”

Stark blinks up at him. “Uh, my parents?” Stark prompts, looking at the Soldier incredulously when the Soldier’s face doesn’t change. “You know, Howard and Maria Stark? Died in a supposed drunk driving accident? Actually murdered by Hydra’s top assassin?”

The Soldier pales, feeling suddenly sick. “I… I killed your parents?” he croaks, and Stark blinks at him.

“Uh, according to the files, yeah, you did.” Stark frowns, looking upset. “Do you seriously not remember? Like, I’m trying to address this as calmly and rationally as possible, but what the fuck, dude? Are their deaths not even worth remembering? Does killing mean that little to you?”

The Soldier feels tears prick at his eyes at the accusations and looks away before Stark can see them. “I’m sorry. I don’t… Hydra wiped me. I don’t remember anything. I’m sorry.”

Stark pulls back and sets the soldering iron on the table to cross his arms. “What do you mean, wiped? How?”

“High electricity voltage applied directly to the brain via metal plates placed on the head, face, and neck,” the Soldier reports dutifully, voices of scientists from his past ringing in his ears. “The procedure is administered through the Chair after malfunctions, major missions, and cryofreeze. Desired outcome: all memories, personality, and autonomy erased.”

The Soldier blinks himself back into the present to see that Stark’s skin tone has acquired a green tint.

“Fuck,” Stark says. “Okay, fuck, that’s… that’s fucked up, bud.”

The Soldier swallows and bites his lip. “I don’t remember much. But I do remember a little, and sometimes I can induce memories if I focus hard enough. I can try—”

Stark shakes his head vehemently. “ _ Nope _ . Nope, no reason to do that, I can already tell that that will just fuck both of us up even more.” He sighs and shakes his head, running a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ, I mean, Steve said you were brainwashed and shit, but I didn’t realize… Jesus. Okay, you know what? That just made it way easier to forgive you. Consider your sins absolved.”

The Soldier blinks. “Really? You can forgive me? Just like that?”

Stark twists his lips. “Look, I was tortured for three months once, and by the end of it I was just about ready to give in and do anything they wanted. Hydra had you for seventy fucking years.  _ And _ you didn’t have any of your own memories. Yeah, I’m pissed off that my parents are dead, but knowing that… there’s nothing to forgive, Robocop.”

The Soldier looks away and tries to discreetly wipe the moisture from his eyes. “Thank you,” he rasps, and for once Stark doesn’t give a sarcastic response.

The rest of the GPS installation goes smoothly, neither of them talking much except for Stark’s sporadic comments about the arm. As he packs his tools away, he frowns at his watch, then at the door. “Hmm, I was hoping Steve would be back by now; I need to talk to him about dropping by the tower so we can set up a way for him to access the feed on your location. Plus, he mentioned something about having questions, so…”

“You can wait for him here if you like,” the Soldier offers uncertainly, still feeling a little off-kilter from the revelation about Stark’s parents. “There’s apple pie in the fridge, if you want some.”

Stark grins. “Now we’re talking,” he exclaims, rubbing his hands together.

The Soldier takes that as a yes and plates up two slices to bring to the dining room table, along with the can of whipped cream. The pie succeeds in keeping them busy for another ten minutes or so, but once both their plates are cleared they revert back to sitting in awkward silence.

The Soldier frowns and darts his eyes around, trying to come up with a way to pass the time. Social interaction is one thing he is not yet skilled in, and eventually the blurts out “Would you like to see my room?” just to break the silence.

Stark quirks a brow at him, bemused, but shrugs. “Sure, Robocop. Why not?”

The Soldier eagerly scoots back his chair and leads Stark to the room he shares with Steve. Stark smiles and shakes his head as he looks around. “You really like space, huh?” he remarks, and the Soldier nods.

“Yes.”

Stark smiles at him broadly. “Me too. Just not the aliens that come with it,” he admits. He catches sight of Steve’s sketch book on the table and looks back at the Soldier questioningly. “You draw?” he says dubiously.

The Soldier shakes his head. “That is Steve’s,” he explains. “This is his room, too.”

Starks mouth drops open, then slowly forms a devious smile. “You two sleep together?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows, and the Soldier frowns at the action but nods again.

“Yes. It is quite enjoyable.”

Stark barks out a laugh and shakes his head in amusement. “Oh boy,” he says, eyes twinkling, “you are too much.” He looks as if he’s about to say more but cuts himself off and walks to the dresser instead, where he picks up the Soldier’s copy of  _ The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy _ . “Is this yours?” he asks excitedly. “This is my favorite book!”

The Soldier can feel his face light up. “It is my favorite as well,” he admits, and Stark eyes him thoughtfully.

“You seen the movie yet?”

The Soldier’s eyes widen. “There’s a movie?” he asks, and Stark grins.

“C’mon,” he says, leading the Soldier back into the living room. “I’m about to give you the time of your life.”

By the time Steve gets home an hour later, the Soldier and Stark are halfway through the movie and all the way through a massive bowl of popcorn. “Sorry, it took so long,” he says from the door, “I—”

“Shhhhh,” Stark shushes aggressively, scrambling for the remote to pause the film. “No talking during movie time!”

Steve blinks at him. “Why are you still here?”

“Because it’s movie time,” Stark retorts. “Also I needed to talk to you about something. Not right  _ now _ , jeez,” he interrupts when Steve opens his mouth again, “Can’t you see we’re in the middle of something?”

Steve snaps his mouth shut, then opens and closes it again before sighing.

“Good,” Stark praises. “Now go make us some more popcorn and be quiet.” He clicks the remote and the movie starts again. Steve glowers at Stark and gives the Soldier a look of exasperation, but dutifully takes the empty bowl from the coffee table and goes to the kitchen to make more. He returns five minutes later with the fresh popcorn and plops down on the couch next to the Soldier, cuddling up to the Soldier’s side.

Stark looks over at them and grins and makes his eyebrows all wiggly again. Steve glares at Stark until the other man looks away, hands raised in defense but a smile still on his face.

Stark doesn’t look back at them again until the credits roll. “Thoughts, Robocop?” he inquires, and the Soldier grins at him.

“Assessment: highly positive,” he reports. Stark beams.

“Damn right. Anyway, Capsicle, you said you had some questions for me?”

He and Steve start discussing the GPS system, Steve double-checking the feed’s security. The Soldier mostly tunes them out in favor of taking the popcorn bowl to the sink to wash it along with the other dishes that have accumulated. They finish just as the Soldier starts drying the last plate, and Stark stands and stretches dramatically.

“Well, this was fun. I already texted Tim, he should be here soon to collect me.”

Steve nods and stands as well, shaking Stark’s hand. “Thanks, Tony. I appreciate it. That’s everything we needed to go over, right?” he checks, and Stark nods.

“Yep, that’s everything. Robocop, give me your phone.”

The Soldier blinks and hands over the fancy cellphone Steve had bought for him. Starks snags it from his hand and taps something onto the screen. The Soldier looks to Steve with confusion but Steve just shrugs and frowns.

“What are you doing?” the Soldier inquires. The buzzer sounds and Steve walks over to press the button.

Stark doesn’t even look up. “Putting my number in your contacts.”

“Oh,” the Soldier says, then pauses and frowns. “Why?”

“So, I can text you, duh,” Stark says, handing the phone back. “We’re doing this movie thing again. Stock up on popcorn, big guy; we’re gonna need it.”

Steve looks like he’s about to object, but then the door opens and Tom pokes his head in.

“Timmy!” Stark greets, “Go ahead and grab those boxes for me, will ya, Champ? Anyhow, I’ll see you two grandpas soon. Ciao.”

Steve blinks at the door as it shuts behind them, then turns to the Soldier. “He just invited himself over again, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” the Soldier confirms.

Steve sighs. “Of course he did. Well, at least you two got along…?” The statement sounds more like a question, so the Soldier nods. Steve relaxes a bit. “Good. I’m glad you’re making more friends, Buck,” he praises, and the Soldier grins proudly.

“Me too.”

⭑ ⭑  ⍟ ⭑ ⭑

The Soldier and Steve celebrate a holiday called Thanksgiving by eating store-bought turkey sandwiches; their futile attempt at a more traditional meal having been burnt to a crisp. Steve frets about not making the day more enjoyable for the Soldier, who has technically never experienced it before, but the Soldier has no such qualms. The pumpkin pie, at least, had survived their attempts at baking, and that’s all that matters. Well, that and the fact that he spent the day with Steve, at home, right where he should be.

As the weeks pass, the air gets cooler and cooler, until frost covers the windows and snow builds up on the streets. The snow itself is nice—fun to play with and throw at Steve—but the cold makes the Soldier anxious, bringing with it too many bad memories. The Soldier thinks Steve feels the same. They cope by huddling together at night and taking extra-hot baths and turning the heater on as high as they can.

Stark comes over on a weekly basis, bringing a new film to watch each time. He shows the Soldier the movie  _ Robocop, _ but the movie (while enjoyable) does nothing to convince the Soldier of the nickname’s accuracy. Most of the movies involve robots or aliens or guns, which the Soldier appreciates greatly.

The discovery of his new favorite movie, however, comes on a windy December afternoon.

“Are you kidding me?” Stark gripes. “Out of all the cinematic masterpieces I have shown you  ** _Wall-E_ ** _ ,  _ is your favorite?”

Steve, with his head pillowed against the Soldier’s thigh as per usual, grins. “Aw, c’mon, Tony, leave him alone. The little robots are pretty cute.” The Soldier nods solemnly in agreement.

“It’s not about  _ cute _ , it’s about—!” Stark cuts off suddenly and closes his eyes, taking in a deep, calming breath. “You know what? I don’t care. This doesn’t bother me at all. This is fine.” He opens his eyes again and glares sternly at the Soldier. “I am going to leave,” he announces, “before I can go on a three-hour long rant about how horrible your taste is. And the next time I come back I will bring a different movie, and you  _ will _ like it better than  _ Wall-E _ , so help me God.”

Steve’s face looks red from holding in his laughter. He barely makes it until Stark reaches the door before breaking. “Oh man,” he breathes, still giggling. “That was great. I’ve never seen him so mad before. Is  _ Wall- E _ really your favorite?”

The Soldier bristles defensively. “Yes,” he says defiantly, if not sulkily. “It is.”

Steve pats him on the leg comfortingly. “No need to feel bad about that, Buck. It is a pretty good movie. And, of course, it has robots, which are your favorite.”

The Soldier relaxes and resumes the movement of his fingers in Steve’s hair. “Yes,” he agrees. They are silent for a few moments before he speaks up again. “Steve?”

“Yeah, Buck?”

“Can you get me a robot?”

Steve freezes. “Uh… maybe? I don’t think robots are a thing most people have.”

The Soldier deflates a bit in disappointment. “Oh. Okay.”

Steve sits up and looks at the Soldier earnestly. “Aw, don’t make that face, Bucky. I—I’ll see what I can do, alright?”

Warmth builds in the Soldier’s chest. He leans forwards and pecks a kiss on Steve’s cheek in appreciation, something he has observed people doing in movies. “Thank you, Stevie,” he murmurs, and Steve turns bright red and nods.

“Uh, yeah, I—sure, Buck, no problem,” he stammers. He absentmindedly reaches his fingers up to brush across the skin the Soldier had just kissed before yanking his hand back down and shoving it between the couch and his thigh, looking embarrassed. The Soldier’s attempt to smile sweetly at him by way of comfort only makes Steve blush harder. 

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑


	10. Chapter 10

They put up a tree a week before Christmas, the two of them quarrelling over where this ornament should go or how that garland should placed, or whether to use the white lights or the rainbow ones. The Soldier still enjoys the process despite their bickering, or possibly even because of it, and he suspects Steve feels the same. After they finish, they sit on the couch and sip at their hot chocolate, admiring their work. The shiny ornaments reflect the soft glow of the lights, and the star on top glows bright. The Soldier finds himself mesmerized at the sight.

The Soldier startles slightly when Steve sits up suddenly. “What?”

Steve looks over at him, looking somewhat guilty and unsure. “I just remembered something, but—I mean, I don’t know if it would even mean anything anymore, or if you’d be interested, or—”

“Spit it out, Steve,” the Soldier chides lightly, amused at Steve’s bumbling. Steve nods and sits back again.

“Right. Um, so I don’t know if you remember this, but you’re Jewish. Or at least, you used to be. Every winter when we were kids I’d go celebrate Hanukkah with you at your place, and you’d celebrate Christmas with me at mine. When we got a place together, we just did both. Is that… I know you’re not the same Bucky anymore, and I don’t expect you to be. We don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.”

The Soldier hums thoughtfully, hands cupped tight around the mug to warm his fingers. He’s not entirely certain he remembers what Steve is talking about, but he doesn’t see the harm in celebrating two holidays instead of just one. “We can try,” he decides.

Steve goes out and buys a menorah the very next day. It gets a place on its very own side table in the living room. Together, they research the process and traditions, Steve only knowing what to do for certain parts of it. On the evening of December 22nd, as the sun sets, they eat some traditional Jewish food that Steve had acquired from a local restaurant. The latkes taste familiar on the Soldier’s tongue, but the jelly donuts do not.

The Soldier lights the candles carefully, Steve at his side and looking at him with a small smile. They carefully recite the prayer they had found during their research. It feels familiar on the Soldier’s tongue. When they finish, Steve places a gentle hand on the Soldier’s shoulder. 

“Well? Whad’ya think? You wanna keep doing this?” he asks softly.

The Soldier nods, not looking away from the flickering flames. The image stirs something in his brain, in his chest; some long-forgotten feelings of warmth and safety and comfort. It feels familiar, somehow, even if the memories themselves aren’t clear. 

Steve visibly hesitates, then swoops in to place a soft kiss on the side of the Soldier’s head. The Soldier blinks and looks at him with surprise, noting with a small smile the pink tinge on Steve’s cheeks and the almost nervous expression in his eyes. “Thank you,” the Soldier whispers softly. Steve beams at him.

“Anything for you, Buck.”

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑

The Soldier wakes on Christmas morning to discover that the small pile of presents has multiplied overnight into a mountain. The Soldier blinks and glances over at Steve.

“Where did all these come from?”

Steve looks at him, an expression of fake surprise on his face. “Jeez, I don’t know, Buck. I guess Santa Claus stopped by.”

The Soldier squints at him suspiciously but plops himself on the floor in front of the tree, already reaching for one other the colorfully wrapped boxes.

“Don’t you think we should eat breakfast first?” Steve asks, exasperation lacing his voice.

“No,” the Soldier says flatly. He tips the box around until he can see the name written on it. “This one is yours,” he says, holding it out, “from Nora, I think.”

Steve sighs and sits down next to him. He takes the present, then scans through the pile and selects on box in particular before hiding it behind his back. “That one’s for later, after you’ve opened all your other ones,” he explains in response to the Soldier’s questioning look.

The Soldier is pleased with the gifts he had chosen. He had given everyone a pair of soft pajama pants with little cartoons—paint bushes for Steve, birds for Sam, dogs and cats for Nora, spiders for Natasha, and robots for Tony. (He had ordered a pair of the robot ones for himself as well, of course.) He had also gotten them each a bath kit along with their personalized gifts. Natasha had accepted hers very reluctantly, but the Soldier considered the fact that she took them at all to be a good sign.

The gifts he receives consist of movies, books, blankets, fuzzy slippers, and, of course, more pajamas and bath products. Steve receives art supplies, a t-shirt with dogs on it, and a polaroid camera. They also receive a framed picture of Steve and the Soldier from Sam. Steve nearly cries looking at the last one, and the Soldier resists teasing him for it only because he is a bit worked up himself. Sam is an excellent gift-giver, the Soldier decides.

Once the pile has been reduced to a heap of ripped wrapping paper, Steve hands the Soldier the final box that he had set aside. It is somewhat large and heavy in the Soldier’s hands. The Soldier rips into the paper eagerly, wanting to see why Steve left this gift for last. Once the paper has been torn away he tilts the box to see the label and gasps.

“Steve,” he breathes, “is this…”

“Your very own robot,” Steve confirms. “The reviews online said it’s supposed to be pretty good, and I thought it looked cute, so I went ahead and bought it.”

The Soldier sets the box down carefully before launching himself forwards into Steve’s arms. The impact topples Steve backwards, and they end up lying on the floor, the Soldier’s body sprawled on top of Steve’s. “Thank you,” he enthuses, pressing a kiss to each of Steve’s cheeks—partially to express his thanks, but also just so he can see that pretty flush rise again. He smiles when it appears, turning Steve’s face a whole shade darker. The Soldier grins down at him, then scrambles off to grab the box again. 

He opens it up and scans through the instructions as Steve just continues to lie there on the floor, staring up at the ceiling with pink still staining his cheeks. Eventually Steve recovers enough to sit up and help the Soldier figure out how to set up the robot. It’s small, fits is the palm of the Soldier’s hand, and is a box-like shape. He is forced to wait impatiently as it charges, Steve luring him into eating breakfast with pancakes.

When the robot makes a little chirping noise and rolls out if it’s charging station, the Soldier abandons his nearly-empty plate to rush to its side.

“Hello,” he greets formally. He holds his breath in anticipation as the robot rolls around to look at him. It raises its little arms and beeps in response.

The Soldier beams and spins around to look at Steve. “Did you see that? He said hello!”

Steve looks at him with amusement and shakes his head. “I’m gonna regret buying you this, aren’t I?” he grumbles, but the smile on his face belies his complaining.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑

The robot, in the Soldier’s opinion, is highly intelligent. Its digital eyes express emotion better than the Asset was able to, and it knows not to roll off of tables and injure itself. It coos happily when the Soldier pets it and throws a tantrum when it's picked up. It can tell the Soldier the weather when he asks, and is able to go back to its charging station all by itself when it gets tired. It can take pictures and looks directly at whoever is speaking to it, and dances when music is playing. The Soldier loves to set it on the floor and let it explore the house. Steve loves this activity less so, and frequently complains that he’s going to accidentally step on it someday. He watches his step carefully though, and never moves it from the floor. The Soldier names it Rob (short, of course, for robot).

When Stark comes over and sees Rob zooming around on the coffee table, he squawks in indignation. “Are you kidding me? You bought a robot? I could have built you a way better one for free!”

The Soldier glares at him balefully. “Rob is perfect and I will not stand for you insulting him.”

Stark gapes at him, then growls something under his breath. When he moves to pick up Rob the Soldier blocks him. 

“Don’t. He doesn’t like being lifted up.”

Stark rolls his eyes. “Unbelievable,” he grumbles, dropping onto the armchair and crossing his arms. “Where’s your boytoy?”

The Soldier frowns. “Steve is neither a boy nor a toy. And he is helping Sam with something at the VA.”

“Of course he is,” Stark sighs. “Captain lives to serve.”

They watch  _ Back to the Future _ and throw popcorn at one another. When Steve gets home just after the movie has ended, he looks at the mess and sighs. 

“Really, guys?”

The Soldier pouts at him guiltily, knowing that the expression will make Steve forgive him in an instant. It works. 

“You know what? It’s alright, popcorn’s not to hard to clean up,” he backtracks, and the Soldier hides a smug smile.

“You know what’s not alright?” Starks cuts in, “Buying a robot when you have a friend who makes robots.”

Steve blinks and rubs at his chin. “Huh. I forgot about that.”

“You forgot?” Starks parrots incredulously. “You forgot that I, a man whose armor is literally a robot, can make robots? For free? Think of all the money you could have saved!”

Steve shrugs dismissively. “It’s not that big a deal, Tony, it was only five hundred dollars.”

“Five hundred— okay, I’ll admit, that’s pretty reasonable for a robot. But coming from you? Steve “I Don’t Like Wasting Money” Rogers? And you know what,” Stark rants, “speaking of that, what the fuck is up with all the other expensive shit you have in here? Those were luxury bath products I saw in the bathroom, not to mention all the fancy blankets scattered all over. Not that I’m not thrilled that you’re finally embracing the millionaire lifestyle, but what gives, huh? What happened to your debilitating fear of spending more than one dollar at a time?” He looks at Steve accusatorily, and Steve falters.

“Tony, that’s not—I just—” he stutters. The Soldier takes pity on him and decides to help.

“He likes spoiling me,” he explains factually. 

Steve’s eyes go very wide and his face turns very red. Stark, on the other hand, goes from frowning to grinning evilly.

“Is that right?” he asks, eyeing Steve pointedly. “Why, Rogers, I never took you for the sugar-daddy type.”

“Tony!” Steve protests, somehow growing impossibly redder. 

The Soldier tilts his head and looks between the two men in confusion. “What is a sugar-daddy?”

Stark grins slyly at the Soldier, who continues to not understand why Stark does that wiggly thing with his eyebrows. Is that particular type of eyebrow movement meant to be indicative of something? Further intel needed. “It’s a guy who buys stuff or gives money to someone, usually in exchange for love,” he explains, drawing out the last word and deepening his voice.

The Soldier considers this and frowns thoughtfully, then nods. The Soldier does love Steve, and Steve does buy him a lot of things and also provides the Soldier with money. “That sounds accurate.”

“Bucky!” Steve exclaims, looking scandalized. Stark laughs gleefully, but the Soldier ignores him in favor of eyeing Steve in concern.

“You are very red. Are you alright?” he asks, standing and moving to place a hand on Steve’s forehead to check his temperature. Steve batts his hand away, blush still running strong.

“Buck, I— Tony’s talking about a different type of love,” he stammers. “Like, you know, the romantic type.”

“The sex type, more like,” Stark cuts in, and Steve winces and shoots a glare at him.

The Soldier frowns, not understanding, but before he can ask further questions Stark’s phone rings.

Steve melts with relief. “Whoops, you better get that, Tony, it might be important.”

Stark looks down at his phone with a frown. “It’s Pepper,” he mutters, “I better answer this and head out.” He looks back up at Steve and points a finger at him. “I’m not gonna forget this, Captain, so don’t think you’re off the hook.”

Steve groans. “Tony, I swear, it’s not like that—”

“Uh huh. Sure. Whatever you say, Rogers,” Stark says dismissively, already raising the phone to his ear and striding towards the door.

“Peps!” Stark exclaims. “Just in time, you won’t  _ believe  _ the gossip I just heard—”

“Tony!” Steve barks, and Stark pouts at him as he walks past.

“Aw, you’re no fun. Sorry, Pepper, looks like I can’t share after all. Captain’s orders. What do you need—?” his voice gets cut off as the front door shuts behind him.

The Soldier turns to Steve opens his mouth to ask more questions, but when Steve looks at him the blush that had just begun to fade makes a reappearance.

“Uh, I have to do some work on the computer, so I’m gonna be in the office. I’ll be out in time for dinner,” he says over his shoulder, already half way through the door to his old room. It shuts firmly behind him, and the Soldier shakes his head as he sits back down on the couch. It seems that for now, at least, his questions will remain unanswered.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑

The Soldier ponders over Steve’s and Stark’s words for days afterwards. He had known, distantly, that there are different types of love. But the subject is not one he’s ever had any reason to dwell on before, and so he had never given it much thought. Now, however, it seems to be all he can think about.

He loves Steve. He knows he does. Before now, he always thought he loved Steve like family, like a friend. But under closer examination, neither of those statements seem to be true. The Soldier can remember the affection he felt for his mother, for his sister, and that feeling is nothing like how he feels for Steve, nor is it comparable to the way the Soldier feels about Sam or Stark. All of the feelings are somewhat similar—towards each of those people he feels a sense of fondness, a feeling of loyalty, a need to protect. But the feelings are also strikingly different with each relationship.

The Soldier’s attempts to interrogate Steve on the subject are met with stuttering and blushing, and are altogether unsuccessful. By the time Sam arrives on a Thursday afternoon, the Soldier is practically buzzing with curiosity.

“Hey, man,” Sam greets, absently waving goodbye to Steve as he ducks out the door to run errands. He glances down at the floor with a smile when Rob bumps into his foot, then focuses his attention on the Soldier. “How have you been? How’s your week been going?”

“Good,” the Soldier says dismissively. “I have a question.”

Sam blinks at his eagerness but nods. “Alright, go for it. What about?”

“Love,” the Soldier replies, and Sam sighs deeply and rubs a hand down his face.

“Oh boy, here we go,” he mutters under his breath, before shaking his head and visibly shifting into Therapist Mode. “Right, okay. What do you wanna know?”

The Soldier bites at his lip and looks away. Rob is currently zooming in circles around the coffee table. For all of the Soldier’s anticipation about gaining intel, now that his chance is here, he has no idea what to say.

“Let’s start with this,” Sam suggests softly after a few moments of silence. “Does this happen to have anything to do with Steve?”

“Yes,” the Soldier says, surprised. “How did you know?”

Sam smiles at him. “Just a hunch,” he says cryptically.

The Soldier eyes him suspiciously but nods and continues. “When Stark was here, he and Steve had a discussion, and some of the things they said prompted me to reevaluate my feelings for Steve.”

Sam tilts his head, curious. “What were they talking about?”

“About Steve being my sugar-daddy,” the Soldier explains, and Sam barks out a surprised laugh.

“Oh, wow, okay,” he says, grinning and shaking his head. “Sorry, that was just  _ not _ what I was expecting. Go on. What are you reevaluating with Steve?”

“How I feel for him… It’s—I love him. But I love him different from how I loved my mother, or my sister, or you.”

Sam flushes a bit, looking pleased. “First of all, that’s real sweet of you Barnes, and I love you too, bud. Second of all—there are different types of love. There’s familial love, and platonic love—which I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess is what you feel for me—and there’s different types of romantic love. That’s what people mean when they say they’re ‘in love’. And then there’s lust, which is what I guess some people would call sexual love.”

The Soldier nods slowly, taking the information in. He had already suspected that, but it’s nice to know he is correct. “How do you know? Which type of love you’re feeling?”

“Ah, now there’s the million-dollar question. And honestly, there’s not really a straight answer. Everyone will tell you a different thing, because everyone feels things differently.”

The Soldier frowns. He finds Sam’s response to be deeply unsatisfying. “Then how am I supposed to know what I’m feeling for Steve?” he asks petulantly.

Sam hums thoughtfully. “Well,  _ I _ can’t tell you if you’re in love with Steve or not. Only you can do that. But, I  _ can _ tell you some common feelings people express when they like someone romantically, and then you can take some time and think about whether or not they apply.”

The Soldier thinks that sounds like a solid strategy and nods.

“Okay,” Sam breathes. “Well, when you’re in love with someone, you usually want to spend the rest of your life with them, no matter what struggles may come your way. You want them to be happy no matter what, but you also want them to be happy  _ with you _ . You also might want to become more physically intimate with them, like through touching a lot or kissing or having sex. Some people don’t want that, though, and that’s fine, too. You might spend a lot of time thinking about that person, especially about how they smile or laugh or things like that. Hmm, what else…? I guess for a lot of people, the thought of the person they love becoming intimate with someone else can be upsetting.”

The Soldier chews on his lip, brows furrowed as he thinks. A lot of those things  _ do _ apply to him when it comes to Steve.

“Hey,” Sam says gently. “You don’t have to figure it out right now. Take your time, think it through.”

“And when I do figure it out? What action should I take?”

Sam shrugs. “Whatever action you want to. You can decide just to leave your relationship as it is, or maybe ask Steve if he would be interested in more with you and then give it a go. And if it doesn’t work out, well, that’s fine, too. But for now, all you gotta do is think about it.”

⭑ ⭑  ⍟ ⭑ ⭑

The Soldier thinks about it. Frequently.

He writes down the specifications of love Sam had listed in his notepad, then compares them to how he feels towards Steve. He does wish to spend the rest of his life with Steve, that he is certain about. And he does want Steve to be happy with him. He also feels that he would enjoy touching Steve more, but when it comes to the other two activities Sam had mentioned he is less confident.

Kissing Steve does sound… nice, if a bit strange. The Soldier does quite enjoy looking at Steve’s soft plush lips, and he is curious to know if they’d feel just as soft under his own. If they would turn even redder under the pressure, if they would yield or push back, if they would taste as sweet as Steve is.

The Soldier realizes he has been absentmindedly biting on his own lip and lets it slip out from the grasp of his teeth. Yes, he thinks, kissing Steve does sound appealing.

Sex, on the other hand, is more daunting to him. He knows about sex, but only vaguely, as more of an abstract concept than anything. His attempts to research the subject bring up pictures that cause the Soldier’s skin to heat and a strange nervous feeling to well up in his chest, as though he is looking at something he shouldn’t be. So he sticks to thinking about it instead. He tries to imagine it with Steve the same way he did with the kissing, but his knowledge on the process is too limited to give him a clear enough picture. What he does manage to imagine, however, makes his heart beat rapidly and his stomach squirm pleasantly. Further intel needed.

He does spend a lot of time thinking about Steve. In fact, he would be happy if Steve was all he could ever think about for the rest of his existence,  _ especially _ if it’s thoughts about Steve being happy. So yes, that requirement definitely applies.

And as for the last one… He tries to imagine Steve coming home and telling the Soldier he met a woman, that he fell in love with her, that he’s moving out to live with her instead. The mere thought has the Soldier retreating under the bed again, emotions of anger and hurt and hopelessness swirling in his chest.

So yes. It is highly possible that he is in love with Steve.

And, the more he reflects on it, the more he starts to think that Bucky Barnes was, too. The memories aren’t clear, but he thinks he remembers discreetly eyeing Steve’s skinny chest appreciatively as Steve changed clothes, remembers wishing he could put a ring on Steve’s finger, remembers traces of burning jealousy during the war. The Soldier is not surprised by this revelation. After all, who in their right mind wouldn’t be in love with Steve? Certainly not the Soldier, no matter what form he’s in.

He’s fairly certain he has his answer. The question now is what to do about it.

The Soldier is happy with the way he and Steve are now. He likes the safety and security that comes from their relationship, the comfort. To ask for more would be unnecessary and risky.

And yet, now that the Soldier knows having ‘more’ is a possibility, he finds himself craving it.

His eyes stray towards Steve’s lips more often than before. When Steve comes home from his morning runs, cheeks rosy from the winter chill and shirt plastered to his chest with sweat and melted snow, the Soldier can’t seem to tear his gaze away. The sound of Steve’s laugh is nearly enough to take the Soldier’s breath away. And at night, during moments like this, as the Soldier lies with Steve’s limbs wrapped around him, he can’t help but wonder what it would be like to have more. He wants to belong to Steve completely, and for Steve to belong to him in the same way.

The thought of Steve belonging to him stirs something in the Soldier’s belly. If Steve was his, the Soldier would take such good care of him, would cherish him above all else, would shower him with love and kisses and every soft thing in the world. There’s nothing he could do to ever be able to deserve Steve, but the Soldier would try. He would try his best to be worthy of Steve, to make Steve happy.

The Soldier tips his head to the side to drink in the sight of Steve’s sleeping face, slack and content, rumbling little snores emanating from his chest. An emotion swells in the Soldier’s heart, the same emotion that used to build when the Asset thought about being free. Longing, the Soldier thinks.

The Soldier doesn’t think he deserves to ask for more, doesn’t even think he deserves what he has now. But he is also aware that Sam and Steve would argue that point, would tell him he deserves whatever he wants, and that he should fight for what he desires. And, the Soldier reasons to himself, what’s the worst that could happen? If Steve says no, they will simply maintain the relationship they already have, and the Soldier will be content with that. Telling Steve his feelings has the potential for much reward and little risk.

At least, that’s what the Soldier believes, until the Internet tells him differently.

⭑ ⭑  ⍟ ⭑ ⭑

After much debate about how and when to confess his feelings to Steve yields no conclusive decision, the Soldier decides that research is necessary. So, once Steve had left for his morning run, the Soldier slips into the office and boots up the laptop. He is scanning a forum on people discussing their own strategies to revealing their love when he sees it.

** _game(r)boy23:_ ** _ I fell in love with my best friend five years ago, love so all consuming that I felt it was burning me alive. Eventually, after years of pining, I finally worked up the courage to confess to her. Worst mistake of my life. She instantly rejected me, and even worse, became visibly uncomfortable around me. Despite my best efforts to rebuild what we had, she stubbornly refused to see my side of the situation. We lost touch a year ago and haven’t talked since. My advice? Think twice before putting your heart on the line. You might just ruin everything. _

The Soldier frowned and absentmindedly chewed on the inside of his cheek. That sounded like a very unfortunate occurrence, but surely it wasn’t common. Right?

He anxiously scrolled down and scanned through the rest of the comments on the post, his heart sinking further with each line he read. There were hundreds of responses, each of them detailing their own negative experiences, explaining how they were rejected and subsequently scorned or ignored. A few people argued that it was worth a try, but they were outnumbered. The Soldier frowned even further at one particular reply:

** _hit&ron:_ ** _ totally agree, dude, especially if youre a guy who likes guys. my roomate said he was cool with me being gay, but the instant I told him I liked him? he freaked out, called me all kinds a names, and was out of there like a shot. he moved out a week later. shoulda just admired him in secret, I guess. _

This prompts the Soldier to look up what gay means, which then leads to an hour-long exploration of different sexualities, which  _ then  _ leads to the Soldier discovering that revealing the fact that you are ‘gay’ is  _ another _ thing that can ruin friendships.

The Soldier drags his gaze away from the screen and rubs harshly at his eyes, partially to let out some frustration, and partially in hopes of alleviating their soreness from staring at the screen for so long. Just when he had finally come to a decision, his plans were set off course.

The Soldier sighs and glances at the laptop woefully. Well, he supposes, at least he gained this intel  _ before _ going to Steve and risking everything.

As if the thought summoned Steve, the Soldier hears the front door opening. The Soldier stands just as Steve calls out “Buck?”.

“In here,” the Soldier announces, then spins back around and looks at the computer screen in panic. He has just managed to slam the lid shut and swipe it from the desk when Steve pokes his head in.

“Hey,” he greets, smiling, then frowns. “You alright? You don’t look so good. What are you doing in here, anyway?” He takes a step forward and the Soldier automatically takes a step back. Steve frowns harder but doesn’t try to approach again.

“I am fine,” the Soldier says quickly. “I needed to do research.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Oh? What for?”

The Soldier feels his eyes widen. “Classified,” he blurts out, and Steve gives him a look.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “You sure nothing’s wrong?”

“Yes,” the Soldier lies, and Steve looks wholly unconvinced.

“Right. Well, I’m gonna hit the shower. Let me know if you wanna, like, talk or something?”

The Soldier nods and watches as Steve hesitates before sighing and walking away. He then waits until the bathroom door closes before making a hasty retreat to his bedroom, where he reopens the laptop and clears the search history. He glares at it balefully, upset that what should have been simple intel gathering managed to destroy his confidence and certainty so thoroughly.

When Steve comes into the room hours later, the Soldier has resorted back to hiding under the bed again. As usual, Steve sighs and lies down on the floor too, a concerned frown on his face.

“What’s goin’ on with you, Buck?” he questions softly. The Soldier just looks at him apologetically and shakes his head. “You don’t wanna talk about it?” Steve interprets. He smiles ruefully when the Soldier shakes his head again. “Alright,” he sighs, “I won’t bug you about it. But can you promise you’ll at least talk to me or Sam if it gets bad?”

The Soldier considers, then nods. That is a fair request.

“Thanks, Bucky. I’m real proud of you, of how you’re doing. You know that right?”

The Soldier flushes a bit and nods again, this time with a small smile on his face. “I know,” he murmurs.

Steve grins at him. “Good. Anyway, I made your favorite food, if you wanna come out and watch some TV with me instead of moping in here all alone.”

The Soldier perks up, excited despite the worry still churning in his mind. “Pancakes?”

“With whipped cream and everything,” Steve confirms. “I made us some hot chocolate, too, if you wanna have some.”

The Soldier thinks that it’s possible that Steve knows him too well. Steve has already begun to identify his weaknesses. The thought doesn’t make the Soldier as upset as it should.

He rolls out from under the bed and follows Steve out. They eat sitting on the couch, the TV playing the knife making show, their thighs brushing against each other. Rob has been placed on the coffee table. The Soldier watches as he rolls up to the very edge and beeps in alarm before backing up carefully, only to continue the process all over again on the other side. The Soldier smiles and leans forward to lift him up and set him back on the ground, Rob waving his arms and chirping angrily until his wheels make contact with the floor again.

On the TV, one of the contestants is talking about his girlfriend back home, and how he hopes to win the cash prize so that he can buy her a nice engagement ring. The Soldier frowns and glances at Steve discreetly from the corner of his eye. He doesn’t think Steve would be angry at the Soldier for his feelings, or for being attracted to men. In fact, he’s nearly certain Steve wouldn’t be upset at all, even if he doesn’t reciprocate the Soldier’s love. But the experiences he had read about had shaken him, had managed to critically damage all of his hard-won confidence.

He doesn’t realize that Steve is looking back at him until Steve places a gentle hand on his knee. The Soldier startles out of his thoughts and blinks owlishly at him.

“There you are,” Steve murmurs, the small smile on his face overshadowed by the concern in his eyes. “What’s up with you today, Bucky? You’ve been doing so well, and now you’re back to hiding and frowning and zoning out again.”

The Soldier glances down at his lap and twists his fingers together, trying to figure out what to say.

“Hey,” Steve says, “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

The Soldier peeks up at him, then looks down again, shaking his head. “It’s nothing,” he dismisses.

Steve looks at him searchingly before nodding and looking back at the TV. He’s obviously trying to conceal his disappointment and worry, but the Soldier can see it in the set of his jaw and the slump in his shoulders.

The Soldier looks at him and sighs. Upsetting Steve is exactly what he had been trying to avoid, and he managed to do so anyway. “It’s not nothing,” he admits. Steve looks back at him in surprise and nods encouragingly, expression open and supportive. “I—there’s something I would like to tell you. But people on the Internet said that this kind of thing can ruin friendships, can make people leave them. And I don’t think you’d do that, but now I’m just… afraid,” he explains haltingly.

Steve smiles wryly at him. “Buck, our friendship has survived the Great Depression, a war, seventy years of separation, and a fight that nearly ended in both of us dying. I’m pretty sure it can survive whatever it is you need to tell me.”

The Soldier considers that and nods slowly. “Okay,” he breathes, trying to think of where to start. Maybe it’s best to start small, with something that won’t incriminate him personally. “Bucky Barnes was in love with you.”

Steve’s expression shutters. The Soldier can’t read what the look on his face is, but he is fairly certain it isn’t a good one. His heart drops and he opens his mouth to start apologizing, but Steve starts speaking before he can. “I know,” he says, voice pained. The Soldier blinks in surprise and Steve looks up at him imploringly. “He told me once, during the war. I… I didn’t handle it as well as I should have. Told him we’d talk about it later, after we got home.” Steve draws in a shuddering breath and looks down. “We never got home. He fell, and I followed.”

They are both silent for a few moments, the Soldier processing this new information, only the sounds of TV and Rob’s chirping filling the background. The Soldier takes in a deep breath and stares steadily at Steve. “We’re home now.”

Steve blinks in surprise. “I—Buck, I don’t expect you to—we’re not the same anymore—”

“Did you love him back?” the Soldier interrupts.

Steve’s face twists, giving a smile that looks more pained than anything. “I did,” he confesses. “I really, really did. Just didn’t realize it until it was too late.”

The Soldier nods thoughtfully, considering this. He is not sure whether or not the fact that Steve requited Bucky’s feelings is a good thing. “I am not him. I know you loved him, but I am not your Bucky,” he states resolutely.

“I know,” Steve assures, “God, Buck, I know that. You’re a different guy now, and that’s alright. I think I’m different too. But… I mean, I like to think that you’ll always be my Bucky, no matter what form you come in.” The last part comes out stuttered, a blush accompanying the words. The Soldier’s heart twists.

“I am yours,” he agrees, straightening his back, “I am yours, Stevie, because even though I’m not Bucky Barnes, we do have a lot in common. Like, apparently, our love for sci-fi, and our protectiveness, and…” he pauses to swallow and tramp down his nerves, “And the fact that we love you.”

Steve gapes at him, shocked. “You…?”

It’s not a question, not really, but the Soldier nods regardless. “I do. I don’t expect you to feel the same, but—”

His words get cut off with a small  _ oof  _ as Steve’s weight crashes into him, enveloping him in a tight hug. “I  _ do _ ,” Steve enthuses, “Jesus, Buck, I do, and I— hell, I feel really bad saying this but I think…” he pulls back to look at the Soldier directly, guilt and longing in his eyes. “I think that maybe, I might be even more in love with you than I was with him,” he admits softly.

The Soldier’s chest fills with a strange sensation, as though his body has been pumped with helium and too much energy. He smiles giddily and Steve, heart beating wildly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, Buck. So… Um, what do you wanna do about it?” Steve looks both bashful and excited, and the Soldier fights down a grin, instead humming thoughtfully, offering no response. “Buck, c’mon,” Steve whines, “give me something to work with here. I’ve waited nearly a century for this moment.”

The Soldier laughs lightly. “How about,” he starts, cheeks heating slightly, “I kiss you?”

Steve sucks in a breath, gaze dropping down to the Soldier’s lips. “Yeah. Yeah, we can try that.”

The Soldier leans in, but his eagerness throws off his calculations and he ends up bumping his nose into Steve’s cheek. Steve laughs and the Soldier pulls back abruptly, face feeling as though it is on fire. “Sorry,” he mumbles, and Steve shakes his head, still smiling.

“Hey, it’s alright, Buck. This is technically your first kiss after all, right? And I don’t have much experience either,” he soothes. “Here, let me just—” he shifts on the couch to face the Soldier more fully and winds a hand in the Soldier’s hair. “There. Okay, you just stay still for a minute and do whatever feels good, alright? And let me know if you wanna stop.”

The Soldier nods and instinctively slides his eyes shut as Steve leans in. The first brush of their lips is soft, just the breath of a touch, and the Soldier tilts his head forwards in Steve’s grasp insistently, wanting more.

“Alright,” Steve huffs, breath puffing against the Soldier’s face. He pushes his lips forward again, this time more firmly, and the Soldier can feel Steve’s smile on his own lips. It feels somewhat strange, just pressure at first, but then Steve swipes his tongue out and across the Soldier’s lower lip and the Soldier can’t suppress a gasp. Steve seizes the opportunity to force the Soldier’s mouth open wider, and  _ that’s _ when things start to get really interesting.

The Soldier loses himself in the sensations, their surroundings disappearing completely. Steve tastes like sticky sweet syrup and everything good in the world. The Soldier’s own responses are somewhat clumsy, but the Soldier has always prided himself on being a fast learner, and before long he is giving as good as he gets. Somehow his hands have gotten themselves tangled in Steve’s hair, and when Steve does something positively sinful with his tongue, the Soldier’s wrist jerks, causing him to tug at the strands. Steve whimpers softly, and the Soldier pulls back immediately, concerned. “I’m sorry, did I hurt you?” he murmurs worriedly.

Steve blinks his eyes open and pants, gaze cloudy. “No, Jesus  _ Christ _ , do that again,” he implores, and surges back into the kiss before the Soldier can form a coherent response.

A soft noise escapes the Soldier’s throat, but he sighs and melts back into the embrace. Hesitantly, he tugs at Steve’s hair again, and Steve gasps and nods encouragingly against the Soldier’s lips. The Soldier smiles and does it again, harder this time. Steve moans softly in response, and the sound stirs something deep inside the Soldier’s stomach. “Steve,” he gasps out between kisses, “This is…”

“Yeah,” Steve groans back. He climbs onto the Soldier’s lap and kisses him even harder, pouring everything he has into the kiss. The Soldier pulls Steve’s hair again and Steve moans, hips jerking down instinctively. The Soldier whimpers as a strange sensation twinges in his groin in response to the movement.

Steve pulls back and drops his head down into the crook of the Soldier’s neck, chest heaving. “Okay,” he pants into the Soldier’s neck, “I think we need to stop and cool down.” He hushes the Soldier’s protesting whine with another brush of his lips, this one decidedly gentler. He looks thoroughly disheveled, pajamas wrinkled and hair sticking up comically. The sight makes the Soldier’s heart throb. “I know, Buck,” he murmurs, “I know, but if we don’t stop now I don’t think I’ll ever be able to.”

The Soldier doesn’t see the problem in that. He opens his mouth to argue that point, but Steve places a finger on the Soldier’s lips to shush him. The Soldier pouts and crosses his eyes to look at the offending finger.

“I wanna take this slow, Bucky,” Steve explains. “And honestly, I don’t think either of us are ready for more.”

The Soldier pulls his brows together, seeing Steve’s point but not quite willing to admit it yet.

“C’mon, Buck,” Steve wheedles, “Let me take my time with this. Let me treat you real good, make you my fella the proper way.”

The words make the back of the Soldier’s brain squirm excitedly, eliciting some response that the Soldier is certain is from his past. “Okay,” he concedes, surging forward to peck another kiss against Steve’s lips, now red and slick, and oh so pretty. “Whatever you want, doll.”

Steve shivers in his lap at the endearment and flushes prettily. “Right,” he says, clearing his throat. The Soldier will never understand how Steve can go from being confident and determined one moment to a stuttering mess the next. It is frankly far more endearing than it should be.

The Soldier licks at his own lips, chasing the lingering taste of Steve there, and Steve groans at the sight and hastily clambers off the Soldier’s lap. “This is gonna be the death of me, Buck,” he bemoans, and the Soldier freezes in alarm. Steve glances over at him and laughs at whatever expression is on the Soldier’s face. “It’s just a figure of speech, Buck,” Steve reassures, looking fond and amused. “It’s a good thing, I promise.”

The Soldier glowers at him. He decides that that figure of speech is a stupid one.

Steve smiles and leans over to kiss the Soldier’s frown away. When he pulls back again, it is clearly with great reluctance. “Okay,” he sighs, “I think I better go, um—” he pauses and casts his eyes around the room. “Wash the dishes! That’s what I’ll do.” He gathers up their dirty plates, abandoned on the coffee table, and retreats to the kitchen. The Soldier tips his head back against the couch and smiles up at the ceiling.

He is never going to listen to people on the Internet again.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case any of you are curious, [this](https://www.anki.com/en-us/vector/shop-now.html) is what I based Rob off of.


	11. Chapter 11

Altogether, their relationship doesn’t change significantly. There’s a lot more touching and blushing and bumbling, but they still tease each other and bicker and act like best friends.

Well, best friends who kiss a lot, perhaps.

The Soldier has very quickly become addicted to the feeling of Steve’s lips against his own. He demands good morning kisses and goodbye kisses and hello kisses and goodnight kisses. Steve rolls his eyes fondly but always obliges, and the Soldier can tell he enjoys the activity just as much.

The first time Sam witnesses Steve press a goodbye kiss on the Soldier’s lips before heading out, Sam grins and gives the Soldier a thumbs-up from behind Steve’s back. “Man, I am so glad you two finally got your shit together,” he enthuses, causing the Soldier to nod in agreement and Steve to blush and rub at the back of his neck.

A few days later, when Steve drops onto the couch next to the Soldier during  _ Terminator _ , the Soldier smiles and laces his fingers through Steve’s. He gives Steve what he intended to be a quick peck, only for it to draw out into a lingering kiss. The Soldier pulls back with a happy flush on his cheeks to see Stark rolling his eyes.

“Oh,  _ now _ you’re comfortable enough to make out in front of me. As if I haven’t known you two were dating this entire time,” he complains.

Steve frowns at him. “We weren’t, though. Buck and I only got together a week or so ago.”

Stark gapes at him and looks at the Soldier incredulously, who nods in confirmation. “Are you kidding me? You really expect me to believe you two weren’t screwing each other before this?”

“Tony!” Steve scolds, and the Soldier squeezes his hand comfortingly and tilts his head.

“What is ‘screwing’?” he asks, and Steve blushes harder.

“Buck, don’t—”

“You know, screwing,” Stark cuts in. “Fucking. Making love. Bumping uglies. Woo-hooing. Deflowering each other—”

“Sex,” Steve blurts out, face on fire. “He means having sex, Buck.”

The Soldier’s face lights up with understanding. “Oh! No, Steve and I never had sex. We still haven’t, in fact.”

Steve groans and tries to sink into the couch cushions. “Kill me now,” he mutters under his breath, and the Soldier frowns down at him disapprovingly.

“Aw,” Stark coos, “Is little Captain still a virgin?”

“Tony, I swear to God, I  _ will _ kick you out,” Steve threatens.

Stark raises his hands defensively and lets out a low whistle. “Wow, sounds like somebody needs to get laid.”

“Does that also mean having sex?” the Soldier queries. Steve covers his face with his hands and nods. The Soldier frowns at Steve in concern. “Steve,” he chides, “if you need to ‘get laid’ all you have to do is tell me. I am willing to offer assistance.”

Stark bursts into laughter and the Soldier can see the tips of Steve’s ears burning red. “I regret ever putting the two of you in a room together,” Steve laments, words muffled behind his hands. 

The Soldier takes the opportunity to give Stark a subtle wink. Stark just laughs harder.

⭑ ⭑  ⍟ ⭑ ⭑

“You’re going on a walk with Sam today,” Steve announces. The Soldier blinks up at him from where he’s sitting on the couch, eating a sugar cookie.

“I am?”

Steve nods. “Yes.” He glances at the clock. “In about an hour.”

The Soldier frowns around the cookie in his mouth. “Why?” he asks, word muffled and crumbs falling down to his shirt. Steve eyes him with exasperation and blushes slightly.

“Because I said so, Buck. No more questions. And that’s an order, soldier.”

The Soldier squints at him suspiciously as Steve sits down next to him. But Steve very pointedly does not look the Soldier’s way, so the Soldier just shakes his head slightly and finishes off the last of his treat, licking his flesh fingers to collect the traces of sugar on them. Steve glances over at him with disgust.

“That’s gross, Buck,” he scolds, and squeals as the Soldier wipes that same hand right down the side of Steve’s face in retaliation. “Bucky,  _ ew _ ,” Steve laughs, squirming further down the couch to get away. The Soldier chases him and covers Steve’s lips with his own to halt his protests, grinning when it works and Steve’s noises of complaints melt into soft moans.

The Soldier dutifully walks out the door exactly seventy-one minutes later, Sam at his side as Steve waves goodbye to them and shuts the door firmly. The Soldier looks at Sam and squints. “Do you know what Steve is planning?”

Sam shakes his head and grins, holding the palms of his hands out defensively. “Sorry, man, I can’t say anything. I’ve been sworn to secrecy.”

The Soldier sighs in disappointment and gives Sam a half-hearted glare. They walk through the park, taking in the sight of the ice glistening on the bare branches, and the snowmen of various quality scattered around, until the evening chill becomes too much for them, and they retreat into a coffee shop. They sit at a corner table where the Soldier has sightlines to the entire room and chat amicably, sipping at their cups of hot chocolate. Sam halts in the middle of telling a story about his sister when his phone pings. He glances down at the screen, then looks back up at the Soldier and grins.

“Looks like we better get you home,” he says, then continues on with his story before the Soldier can ask questions. The Soldier frowns at him but doesn’t interrupt.

When they get to the apartment complex, Sam walks him to the elevator and waves goodbye. “You can take it from here. I’ll see you next week. Good luck,” he says with a wink.

The Soldier bounces on his feet anxiously as the elevator ascends, wishing he had taken the stairs instead. It would have been faster, and then he could have gotten to see exactly what Steve is up to even sooner. As it is, by the time the elevator stops at their floor, the Soldier is buzzing with curiosity. He bounds to their door and knocks politely, not wanting to risk ruining whatever surprise Steve has planned by accident. Steve opens the door barely a moment later, a huge grin on his face.

The first thing the Soldier notices is the fact that Steve has changed clothes. He’s wearing a plush blue sweater that the Soldier has never seen before, one that brings out the color of his eyes and makes him look soft and cuddly. He’s also donned slim black pants and a pair of dress shoes, and the sight of him is nearly enough to make the Soldier’s mouth water. Well, that and whatever delicious smell is emanating from the apartment.

“Buck,” Steve greets happily, breaking the Soldier out of his trance. Steve steps aside to usher the Soldier in, pausing to peck a kiss hello onto the Soldier’s lips, which are still chilled from the cold outside. When Steve pulls back and shuts the door behind them, the Soldier finally catches sight of the dining room table and blinks.

It’s been covered with a fancy looking table cloth, a vase of fresh roses placed in the center that’s surrounded by flickering tea candles. Steve’s pulled out the fancy plates that the Soldier knows he keeps in one of the high cabinets but never uses, and they’re loaded with juicy steaks and heaping piles of mashed potatoes and green beans. Steve blushes and smiles sheepishly when the Soldier looks at him questioningly.

“I told you I was gonna treat you right,” Steve starts, “but I know going out to some fancy restaurant somewhere would just make both of us uncomfortable. So… I thought I’d bring the fancy restaurant here, where you feel safe.”

The Soldier blinks again. The fact that Steve would even think of that, would be so thoughtful and considerate… the Soldier feels something melt inside of him, and he reels Steve in to give him a slow, lingering kiss, pouring all of his love and affection into it. Steve threads his fingers through the Soldier’s hair before tugging him back slightly, a small laugh escaping his mouth and his eyes glittering.

“Buck,” he scolds playfully, “you’re not supposed to kiss until  _ after _ the date.”

The Soldier thinks that that protocol sounds stupid and unnecessary, but he doesn’t protest as Steve takes his hand and leads him over to the table, even going as far as to pull the Soldier’s chair out for him. The Soldier pokes at one of the cloth napkins, folded into the shape of a flower, and smiles up at Steve. “How long did it take you to do all this, punk?”

Steve waves his hand dismissively. “Aw, it wasn’t too big a deal, Buck. I mean, I ordered the food from a restaurant Tony recommended, so it’s not like I was slaving away in the kitchen all day or anything.” He reaches for an expensive looking bottle and pours each of them a glass of wine. “I know alcohol doesn’t exactly work on us anymore, but I figured we could at least enjoy the taste, you know?” he explains, shifting in his seat.

The Soldier smiles softly at the realization that Steve is actually  _ nervous _ . “Thank you, Stevie,” he says genuinely, and Steve flushes but looks pleased.

“Anything for my best guy,” he dismisses, and the Soldier laughs.

The food is excellent, made even better by the sounds of Steve’s laughter and the sight of his smile. Dessert consists of a caramelized-honey brûlée, which is as fancy as it sounds. It tastes amazing on the Soldier’s tongue, and even better on Steve’s afterwards, as the Soldier licks into Steve’s mouth while they sit on the couch and watch  _ Beauty and the Beast. _ Steve only puts up with it for a few minutes before gently pushing the Soldier away with a smile as he chides the Soldier for not paying attention to the film. By the end of the movie the two of them have ended up tangled together, both lying down, the Soldier on his back with Steve’s head pillowed on his chest.

“Well?” Steve presses as the credits roll on the screen, looking up at the Soldier with a grin, “How was that for a first date?”

The Soldier smiles softly at him and drops a kiss onto the crown of his head. “Acceptable,” he reports solemnly, and Steve pouts playfully.

“Only acceptable?”

“Yes,” the Soldier says, nodding. “Points had to be deducted due to the fact that there was not enough kissing involved.”

Steve props himself up onto his elbow, his pout dissolving into a sly grin as his eyes drop to the Soldier’s lips. “Hmm, I think I can fix that,” he murmurs, and the Soldier beams and allows his eyes to flutter shut.

⭑ ⭑  ⍟ ⭑ ⭑

The Soldier and Steve fall into pleasurable familiarity, where everything feels right and nothing can go wrong. They kiss and cuddle and are overall content. The Soldier is curious about what it might be like to take things further, but he is happy to go slow and follow Steve’s lead. After all, they have all the time in the world.

Steve plans more dates for them, and the Soldier plans a few himself. Each of the dates go well, and end with each of them laughing and smiling. For Valentine’s Day, Steve presents the Soldier with a box of chocolates and an intricate painting of the two of them from when they went to Coney Island a week before. The Soldier displays the painting proudly directly next to the TV where anyone who comes over can see it, and devours the chocolates happily. He watches excitedly as Steve carefully unwraps his first gift to reveal a poster the Soldier had got online.

Steve quirks an eyebrow. “Stars?” he inquires, and the Soldier nods eagerly.

“It’s a map of what the stars above Brooklyn looked like on March 4 th , the night I came back to you.”

Steve’s mouth parts in surprise and he looks back down at the framed poster, running his fingers softly over the words typed in a swirly font at the bottom. “’Till the end of the line’,” he breathes.

“The words that brought me back to myself,” the Soldier explains softly. Steve’s face crumples and he sets the poster on the coffee table before shifting on the couch to pull the Soldier into a tight embrace.

“ _ Buck _ ,” he says, voice strangled, and the Soldier smiles and runs a comforting hand down his back.

“Open the next gift,” he urges, and Steve pulls back and nods, and wipes at his eyes.

He opens the small velvet pouch the Soldier hands him and gasps at the rings. “Buck, I—you want—?”

The Soldier grins and rolls his eyes at Steve’s panicked expression. “This isn’t a marriage proposal, punk, so don’t get ahead of yourself. You aren’t done wooing me right, remember?”

Steve blushes hard and relaxes somewhat. “I—yeah, okay,” he says bashfully, slipping one of the rings onto his finger. He frowns down at it. “Then why…?”

“You’ll see,” the Soldier murmurs, taking his own ring and placing it on his flesh hand. Steve frowns harder once it’s securely in place.

“It’s pulsing,” Steve says, confused, and the Soldier nods and takes Steve’s hand to place it over his heart. The furrow between Steve’s brows deepens before suddenly smoothing out.

“Bucky,” he breathes, “Is that…?”

“My heartbeat. I asked Tony to make them for us. They’re not ever supposed to run out of power, and they can tell if one person’s ring is taken off and will make the other person’s ring beep as a warning.”

Steve smiles a little, still not tearing his gaze away from the band of metal. “That’s good,” Steve mumbles, “I’d hate for one of us to take it off by accident and give the other a heart attack.” He takes a deep breath before looking back up at the Soldier. “This is real thoughtful, Buck. Thank you.”

The Soldier flushes slightly, pleased that Steve likes his presents. He leans forward to draw Steve into a slow, lingering kiss, and smiles as he feels Steve’s heart rate jump against his finger as the kiss deepens.

They don’t say ‘I love you’ often—both of them already know that to be true—but the Soldier says it now, whispers it against Steve’s lips, and smiles as the words are repeated back to him.

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑

The Soldier wakes, and at first, he isn’t sure why. The apartment is quiet and Steve isn’t curled up next to him, but the sheets are still warm and the faint sunlight streaming through the window indicates that it’s early in the morning, so that’s not too unusual. Steve typically wakes before the Soldier, anyhow. The Soldier frowns and rubs the drowsiness from his eyes, and that’s when he realizes what’s wrong.

The ring on his finger is pulsing rapidly, the way it does when Steve is on one of his morning runs. But Steve isn’t on his morning run—he would never leave without at least waking the Soldier first to say goodbye, and it’s much earlier than he prefers to leave nowadays. The Soldier sits up sharply. Something is wrong.

The apartment is undisturbed when he ventures out of the bedroom, everything in its rightful place, no signs of an intruder. Steve’s shoes are still by the door, and the Solder relaxes slightly as he catches sight of the light spilling from the crack at the bottom of the bathroom door. He calms even further as his ears pick up the sound of water running. Steve must just be taking a shower, he tells himself. No need to worry.

But the ring is still throbbing rapidly, possibly even faster than before, so the Soldier approaches the door and knocks gently, if only to prove to himself that nothing is wrong. “Steve?” he calls, and startles as he hears something clatter to the floor beyond the wood, followed by the sound of a pained groan. In an instant he has the door busted open and is in the room, knife raised and in hand, ready to fight off a potential attacker.

Except, the Soldier realizes quickly, there’s no one else in the room except for Steve, who is standing behind the glass door of the shower looking flushed and shocked, water pouring down on him, shampoo bottles scattered around his feet, a hand cupping his groin. The Soldier blinks.

“Bucky?” Steve says, eyes wide, and turns even redder when he notices where the Soldier is looking. He jerks the hand away as if burned, then brings both hands back just as quickly, covering himself and blushing furiously.

The Soldier tilts his head. “Are you… okay?” Steve doesn’t appear to be injured or hurt—if anything, he just looks embarrassed.

“I’m fine!” Steve blurts out, voice high pitched. The Soldier quirks an eyebrow, and Steve winces and tries again. “I’m okay, Buck, really. Why… What are you doing in here?”

The Soldier raises his flesh hand and wiggles his fingers. “Your heart rate,” he explains. “It was very rapid. I was concerned.”

Steve looks like he would like nothing more than to sink into the ground. “Oh,” he says lamely. The Soldier squints at him suspiciously.

“What were you doing?”

“Nothing! Nothing, Buck, just, y’know, taking a shower,” Steve rambles. The Soldier frowns and glances down at his hand.

“It is possible the rings are malfunctioning. I will have to talk to Tony—”

“No!” Steve yells, and the Soldier looks up at him in surprise. “No, for the love of god, please don’t talk to Tony about this. The rings are fine, I was just…” Steve can’t seem to look the Soldier in the eyes.

It hits the Soldier, then, all at once. Steve’s embarrassment, his rapid heartbeat, the placement of his hand. “You were pleasuring yourself!” the Soldier concludes, momentarily proud of himself for piecing the answer together until another thought hits him and he frowns. “Why—”

“Bucky,” Steve interrupts, voice pleading. “Can we please just— Look, can I at least get out of the shower before we talk about this?”

The Soldier thinks that that is a fair request. “I’ll be in the living room.”

He doesn’t have to wait long. Steve comes out, dressed in his running shorts and a t-shirt, and sits next to the Soldier with a sigh. The Soldier looks at him, waiting for him to say something, but Steve just keeps his lips pursed together.

“Why were you… doing that?” the Soldier asks eventually, voice halting. Steve glances at him and shrugs.

“I dunno, Buck, it’s just a thing people do. It… um, it feels good, and it takes the stress off.”

The Soldier frowns. “But why do it alone? Aren’t I supposed to help with that?”

Steve blushes a bit, then clears his throat and looks at the Soldier seriously. “You aren’t ‘supposed’ to do anything, Buck. Not unless you want to. Yes, romantic partners usually do that type of thing, um, together. But they aren’t obligated to just because they’re in a relationship, and you aren’t either. You don’t ever have to do anything you don’t want to, especially when it comes to stuff like this.”

The Soldier thinks about that as they prepare breakfast together, the Soldier making the smoothies while Steve scrambles the eggs. He thinks about what it would be like to put his hand where Steve’s had been, to bring that pretty flush to Steve’s skin and make him moan in pleasure. That familiar squirming heat blooms it the Soldier’s belly at the image. “I think I want to,” the Soldier says eventually, as he pours out the contents of the blender into two cups.

“Huh?” Steve says absently, laying down pieces of sizzling bacon.

“What we talked about before. I think I want to.”

Steve freezes, then looks over at the Soldier carefully. “Oh.” His throat bobs as he swallows. “That’s good, that you’re thinking about this. But, um, you have to be sure about these kinds of things. It’s important that you don’t have any doubts going into to it.”

“I don’t. I—you said it feels good, right?” Steve nods, and the Soldier takes in a deep breath. “I want to make you feel good.”

Steve squeezes his eyes shut and tightens his grip on the spatula in his hand, the plastic creaking in protest. “Jesus, Buck. I—yeah, okay. I wanna make you feel good, too.”

The Soldier nods, pleased. “How do we start?”

Steve huffs out a laugh and leans towards the Soldier to peck a soft kiss on his forehead. “Well, for now we just finish making breakfast. We aren’t gonna have sex right this instant, Buck.”

The Soldier pouts at him. “Why not?” he asks petulantly. Steve smiles as he scoops up the eggs and bacon and deposits them on a plate.

“Because I want to wait until the right moment. This is important to me, Buck. I want to make sure I do everything right. Besides, I need to go out and buy some stuff first, anyway.”

“What kind of stuff?”

Steve shrugs. “Condoms, for one. Though… come to think of it, I’m not sure we’ll actually need them, what with the serum and all. Lube, though, for sure. Even if we don’t go that far, it's still useful. Makes everything, um, slicker,” he explains, blushing.

The Soldier nods slowly. “Alright,” he concedes. “We can wait.”

⭑ ⭑  ⍟ ⭑ ⭑

Steve comes home from his run that day with the necessary materials. The Soldier watches as he stuffs them away in the back of the drawer of their bedside table, a light blush dusting Steve’s cheeks. The Soldier waits until Steve steps back to stride forwards and take them out, instead placing them pointedly on the bedside table, in plain view. When he looks to Steve challengingly, Steve laughs and reels him into a kiss.

“Patience, Buck,” he murmurs against the Soldier lips. The Soldier’s protests are swallowed by Steve’s skilled mouth. He doesn’t mind.

Well, he doesn’t mind  _ too _ much.

⭑ ⭑  ⍟ ⭑ ⭑


	12. Chapter 12

They’re lounging on the couch that morning when the show they had been watching suddenly cuts off and switches to the image of a young woman on a city street.

“ _ Breaking news _ ,” her voice crackles over the sound system, echoes of wind and chaos evident in the background, “ _ Chicago is under attack. Robots are filling the streets, terrorizing anyone unlucky enough to be caught in the crossfire. We’re a safe distance away but you can hear the—” _

She cuts off and glances at something off screen just as a mechanical whining noise sounds. The image of her terrified face and the beginning of a scream show before the screen cuts black, then switches to the image of a pair of news anchors behind a desk, looking anxious. The Soldier pales and glances at Steve, who is already detangling his hand from the Soldier’s grasp to reach for his phone on the coffee table. It rings before he can get to it, a jarring alarm-like sound that the Soldier has never heard it make before.

“I’m about to leave for Stark Tower,” Steve says as he presses it to his ear, standing.

“ _ Don’t,” _ Natasha’s tinny voice cuts through, “ _ We’ll pick you up in the Quinjet, it’s faster. Meet us on the north side of Brooklyn Bridge Park, ETA five minutes. Wilson’s already on his way there; it’s all hands on deck for this one.” _

Steve hangs up and shoves his phone into his pocket, already rushing towards the door. The Soldier trails after him anxiously, watching as Steve pulls on his shoes.

“Let me come with you,” he demands.

Steve’s already shaking his head. “No. For all we know this could be a stunt by Hydra to lure you out. Besides, we don’t have time to get you the equipment you’d need.”

The Soldier frowns because those are weak excuses and they both know it, but Steve doesn’t give him time to respond, instead dragging the Soldier into a heated kiss. “I’ll be back before you know it,” he murmurs against the Soldier’s lips, then yanks open the door and jogs down the hallway. The Soldier blinks for a moment, dazed, then rushes to look down the hall.

“Be careful!” he calls out just as the elevator doors close, and he doesn’t get a response before they shut firmly, Steve disappearing from view.

The Soldier spends the next thirty minutes pacing anxiously, eyes switching between the news footage playing on the TV and the social media feed on his phone, desperate for information. He pulls out a knife and twirls it through his fingers in an attempt to burn off some energy.

“ _ This just in, the Avengers have arrived on scene—” _

The knife falls to the floor with a clatter as he vaults over the back of the couch to sit down, gaze fixed intently on the TV. Video feed from a news helicopter plays, showing Sam and Stark flying around in the air, shooting down the robots below them. Steve is a red white and blue blur on the screen, barely visible in the lower right corner as he tosses his shield with skilled precision while dodging bullets. From what the Soldier can tell, the robots have been outfitted to serve different functions, some spewing out flames while others spray out rounds of bullets. They have no flying ability, but move quickly and efficiently on the ground, destroying everything in their path. If the Soldier had to guess, he’d say that their intelligence is highly limited, as the don’t seem capable of defending themselves well or seeking out specific targets.

He growls under his breath as the camera pans to the left, cutting off his view of Steve. There are other colorfully dressed people who the Soldier assumes to be the rest of the Avengers. The Soldier leaves the room long enough to grab the laptop before rushing back, pulling up feeds from other news outlets on the computer so he can see different angles.

He switches between them, keeping his eyes locked on Steve whenever possible. The first time the Soldier sees Steve take a hit—a bullet to his right thigh—he stands up from the couch as if he’ll be able to do anything about it. Steve doesn’t even falter, just continues the sweep of his arm and releases the shield from his grasp, sending it gliding cleanly through the metal bodies of three different robots. The Soldier anxiously clutches at the band of metal on his flesh hand, feeling the rapid but steady pulse it emits, reassuring himself that for now at least, Steve is still okay.

Steve gets hit by bullets five more times, gunshot wounds on his legs, arms, shoulder, and abdomen. The Soldier doesn’t see each of the wounds as they happen, but he can make out the red seeping into the blue fabric of Steve’s suit, changing the color into a dark, near-black hue. The Soldier holds his breath as he watches Steve’s movements start to turn sluggish, the pain and blood loss catching up to him. Steve narrowly avoids taking a torrent of fire from a flamethrower to the face, lifting his shield just in time. A camera from a drone zooms in closer on the scene, and the Soldier can make out the movement of Steve’s lips, presumably as he barks out orders into the comms.

The throng of robots is dissipating, and the civilians have all been successfully evacuated, but it is obvious that the team is wearing thin, the superheroes losing some of their coordination and finesse.

The Soldier is genuinely considering stealing a car (or potentially a plane) and heading to Chicago himself, when all of the robots simultaneously freeze, then drop into a crumpled heap, their metal bodies littering the streets. The news cameras pan over the aftermath, then switch back to footage of their anchors reporting live. The Soldier couldn’t care less about their words as they report the damage done and speculate about what just happened. He just wants to know how Steve’s doing. By the time the cameras switch back, the Avengers have disappeared from view. The Soldier doesn’t allow himself to relax—won’t until Steve is home and in the Soldier’s arms, safe and sound.

That takes longer than the Soldier had hoped. Apparently, the team had only retreated long enough to treat their wounds before dragging themselves back to the battlefield to assist with cleanup. The Soldier clenches his jaw and growls in frustration as he watches Steve haul around chunks of buildings and robot parts, despite the fact that there’s no possible way his injuries have healed fully, even with the super serum running through his veins. By the time the team finishes up and leaves again, getting handshakes and ‘thank you’s from the local police department, the Soldier is angry. By the time the front door finally clicks open over an hour later, the Soldier is  _ fuming. _

Steve shuffles through the entry way, looking exhausted but relieved. “Hey, Buck,” he greets casually, as though he didn’t almost just die hours ago. The Soldier clenches his jaw so hard his teeth hurt and strides forward to grab the collar of Steve’s shirt. Steve perks up, obviously expecting a hello kiss.

The Soldier gives him no such thing. Instead, he uses his grip on Steve’s t-shirt to haul him forward and march him to the bathroom.

“Bucky, what’s—” Steve starts, but the Soldier interrupts him.

“Strip,” he orders. Steve blushes and stutters, and the Soldier ignores him in favor of starting the bath.

“What are you doing?” Steve asks. The Soldier can hear fabric rustling as Steve removes his clothes. He doesn’t respond, instead just sticks his flesh hand under the water to ensure it’s hot enough.

When he turns back around, Steve is standing there in nothing but his underwear, looking bashful and confused. The Soldier inspects his body carefully, eyeing the gunshot wounds that are scabbed over, the red patches on his skin from where there were previously burn marks, the bruises in varying shades of yellow and green. The Soldier frowns and purses his lips. He pulls the first aid kit out from under the sink and rifles through it, pulling out the waterproof bandages and ripping the packaging open. He unpeels the first one from its paper backing and carefully applies it to the inflamed bullet wound on Steve’s right bicep. Steve hisses a bit at the contact, and the Soldier gentles his touch but doesn’t apologize.

“Bucky,” Steve protests. “You don’t need to—I already got checked out at the tower.”

The Soldier ignores him and applies a second bandage, this time on Steve’s shoulder.

“I’m serious, Buck, you don’t gotta worry about me. Here, it’s—I can put them on myself if you want—”

“Fine,” the Soldier bites out, shoving the rest of the bandages into Steve’s hand. Steve blinks at him alarm and the Soldier turns away. He shuts off the water tap, the tub already over halfway full, and goes to the shelf with his bath products. He can feel the weight of Steve’s gaze on the back of his head.

“Bucky, are you… are you mad at me?”

The Soldier huffs and twists his lips, snatching the magnesium bath salts and green tea bubble mixture. He dumps a generous amount of both into the water and sticks his hand in to swirl it around. 

“Buck, c’mon, I—”

The Soldier closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath. “Shut up and put the bandages on, Rogers,” he barks, and for once in his life Steve listens. The Soldier draws his arm out of the bath and shakes it to get the excess water off before standing and looking at Steve expectantly. Steve stares back at him with big blue eyes and a worried pout on his lips. “Get in,” the Soldier orders before Steve can say anything. Steve sighs.

He winces as he lowers himself into the water, his face betraying the pain he’s in and the soreness of his muscles. The Soldier’s heart twists at the sight and he looks away, busying himself by collecting the shampoo and soaps. He scoops up water in his hands and pours it onto Steve’s head, not wanting him to have to move more than absolutely necessary. Despite the anger and fear and adrenaline still coursing through him, he keeps his movements gentle as he works the products into Steve’s hair. Steve melts into the touch, pushing back against the Soldier’s fingers.

“Bucky,” he says, voice sad, and the Soldier shakes his head even though Steve can’t see him. When he speaks, his voice is strained.

“Don’t. Just… just be quiet for a minute, will you, Steve? Please.”

Steve tries to crane his neck to look back at the Soldier, but the Soldier holds his head firmly in place and Steve gives up after a moment or two. “Okay, Buck,” he murmurs.

After Steve’s hair has been thoroughly washed, the Soldier heads into the kitchen and prepares some oatmeal. He doubts Steve has taken the time to eat anything all day, and the Soldier hadn’t bothered to try to either, certain he wouldn’t be able to keep anything down with the stress. He adds blueberries to one bowl and brown sugar to the other. He brings a bottle of Gatorade and the bowl back into the bathroom and sets them on the table that goes over the tub, then sets the fresh pair of boxers he grabbed from the dresser on the counter.

“Eat,” he instructs. “Slowly. You can get out of the tub once you’re done.” He waits until Steve nods obediently before scooping up the dirty clothes from the floor to toss them into the laundry bin. He takes a tube of healing ointment from the first aid kit before packing the kit away back under the sink. He heads back out into the kitchen and eats his oatmeal methodically. He tries to ignore the images of Steve getting hurt flashing through his mind.

By the time Steve gets out of the bath, the Soldier had relocated to the bedroom. He glances up when Steve comes in, looking hesitant and uncertain, wearing only the boxers and a towel slung across his shoulder, the bandages all gone. The Soldier points at the bed. “Sit.”

Steve does. He’s still looking at the Soldier with those big puppy dog eyes. The Soldier doesn’t let that distract him from his task of smearing ointment all over Steve’s injuries. It’s nearly pointless—at the rate the wounds are healing the ointment will barely have any effect—but it keeps the Soldier busy and makes him feel useful.

“Bucky,” Steve murmurs, “c’mon, sweetheart. What’s got you so upset, huh?”

The Soldiers jaw clenches and he glares at Steve. “You. You’re so—you’re so  _ reckless _ . You could have gotten yourself  _ killed _ .”

“Buck, that’s my  _ job _ —”

“It’s not!” The Soldier retorts, voice louder than he meant for it to be. “It’s not your job to  _ die _ , Steve. It’s your job to fight bad guys and protect people and watch your own goddamn back so that you can keep doing it!  _ That’s _ your job.”

Steve looks as though he wants to argue, then sighs and looks down, shoulders slumping in defeat. “You’re right, Buck. I just—growing up I always had you looking out for me, and once you were gone… well, there wasn’t much point in being careful, because frankly, I just didn’t care anymore.”

The Soldier’s face twists, the back of his throat burning painfully. He pulls Steve into an embrace, forcing himself to keep his grip gentle and not tight like he wants to it be. “Don’t say that. Don’t—you gotta look out for yourself, Stevie,  _ promise me, _ promise me you will.”

“Bucky, I—” the Soldier starts to pull back at the words, already hearing the denial in them, but Steve brings his arms up and hauls the Soldier back against him. “Hey, alright, I promise, okay? I promise I’ll work on it. Just please don’t be mad at me Buck; I hate it when you’re mad at me.”

The Soldier sniffles. “If you don’t want me to be mad then stop being an idiot,” he advises plainly, and Steve snorts.

“You know that’s not my best strength, Buck,” he teases lightly. “But Bucky, you gotta understand, I can’t stop doing my job—”

The Soldier shuts Steve up with a harsh kiss, pouring all his worry and love and frustration into it. Steve moans in surprise, but kisses back, bringing his hands up to thread through the Soldier’s long hair. The Soldier scoots forwards and pushes Steve back onto the bed gently, oh so gently, because he will never risk hurting Steve no matter how much he wants to sometimes. The Soldier’s body follows after Steve’s as Steve sinks into the pillows, straddling Steve’s hips and being extra careful to hold up his own weight as to not put any pressure on Steve’s injuries.

He pulls back enough to brush his lips across Steve’s forehead, exactly over the spot he remembers gushing blood from a laceration earlier on the news. There’s nothing left now, not even a mark, but that doesn’t mean there’s no pain left. “I know,” he whispers against Steve’s skin, lips moving down to kiss at where his neck had been burned earlier instead. “I know you can’t stop, you stupid punk. Just want you to be careful, s’all. Can you do that for me?”

Steve gasps as the Soldier nips his teeth at Steve’s collarbone. “Yeah,” he breathes, “Yeah, Buck, anything for you.”

Slowly, painstakingly, the Soldier tracks his lips down and across Steve’s body, paying special attention to each newly formed scar, each patch of redness, each spot where he’d sustained an injury. Steve gasps and squirms and tugs at the Soldier’s hair, wanting the Soldier’s lips back on his own, but the Soldier doesn’t give in, too focused on his mission. When he reaches the scar on Steve’s inner thigh they both inhale sharply, though both for very different reasons; Steve in pleasure and the Soldier in fear.

Because that scar, that spot where the bullet had passed through his body, is just barely half an inch short of Steve’s femoral artery. It hits the Soldier then, more forcefully than it had before, just how close Steve came to dying that day. Just how close the Soldier came to losing him, to losing everything.

That realization is what finally has the Soldier breaking down, giving into the turmoil of emotions that has been swirling through him for the entire day. He crumples, letting his weight slump onto the mattress and his head press against Steve’s warm skin. Steve tenses as the first tears reach his leg, tugging at the Soldier’s hair more insistently. “Bucky? Buck, baby, what’s wrong?”

The Soldier shakes his head against Steve’s thigh, clutching at his leg desperately, as if Steve could slip away at a moment’s notice. “You almost  _ died _ ,” he chokes out. “Stevie, I almost watched you  _ die _ , I—”

“Aw, Buck,” he sighs, shifting his grip to the Soldier’s arms and bodily dragging him back up. “Don’t think like that, doll, you can’t let yourself think like that.” He rolls them over so that he’s on top and the Soldier clings to his back, keeping them pressed together tightly.

“I can’t help it,” the Soldier whines, feeling vulnerable in a way he’s never been before. “You coulda—”

“Shh,” Steve hushes, pressing gentle kisses to the Soldier’s face and lips. “It’s alright, Buck, I’m right here, see? I’ve gotcha. Just let me take care of you.”

The Soldier’s face twists. “I should be the one taking care of you,” he protests, and Steve shakes his head.

“There’s nothin’ to take care of, sweetheart. I’m all healed up and safe and clean, all because of you. You take such good care of me, Buck, let me do the same. Let me make you feel good.”

The Soldier sniffles and calms himself down, brows furrowing in confusion rather than anguish. “Is this… Are you talking about sex?” he asks, voice still watery, and Steve laughs softly.

“Yeah, Buck. We don’t gotta if you don’t want to. We can just cuddle, or take a nap, or I can brush your hair…”

“No,” the Soldier says, shaking his head. “No, I want to try. I wanna be close to you, Stevie, I wanna  _ feel _ you.”

“Yeah,” Steve breathes, ducking back down to kiss the Soldier heatedly. The Soldier gasps and moans softly at the way Steve’s body feels on top of his, so warm and alive. “I’ll make it feel good, Buck, make it so good for you, only the best for my best guy.” He mouths at the Soldier’s neck and the Soldier groans at the sensation, not used to the feeling, his hips bucking up instinctively.

“Please,” he whimpers, already feeling overwhelmed but in a good way. “Please, Stevie, I want it.”

Steve hisses and pulls back enough to look the Soldier in the eyes. “God, Buck,  _ anything _ . How—how do you wanna do this? How much do you want to do tonight?”

“Everything,” the Soldier implores. “I want everything with you, Steve, give me  _ all _ of it.”

Steve does.

There are a few shaky moments, like when the Soldier’s discarded shirt lands right on top of Rob, who had been exploring the floor, forcing Steve to get up and uncover him to stop his alarmed beeping. Steve relocates Rob to the living room and shuts the door for good measure and then they get back on track. At least until the Soldier becomes a little too enthusiastic and rips Steve’s boxers in half when removing them. By the time Steve fumbles with the lube and spills it all over the sheets, the Soldier can’t help but laugh.

Steve blushes and goes to rub the back of his neck, only to pause at the realization that his hands are covered in gel. The Soldier laughs harder and Steve winces. “Aw jeez, I’m sorry, Buck,” he groans.

The Soldier furrows his brows, still smiling fondly up at Steve. “For what?”

“ _ This _ ,” Steve says. “Just, all of this. I wanted things to be perfect, and instead I keep messing it up.”

The Soldier resists the urge to roll his eyes, instead pulling Steve down to kiss him softly. “Steve,” he intones, “Relax. This is supposed to be fun, is it not?”

Steve nods glumly and the Soldier beams at him.

“I’m having fun. I don’t need perfect, Stevie, I just need  _ you _ .”

His words seem to bolster Steve’s confidence. Things go better after that. Both of them are more relaxed and focused on the sensations rather than their expectations. It doesn’t take long for the Soldier to fall into a haze of pleasure, the feelings so new and intense that he’s nearly delirious from them, Steve taking the Soldier apart piece by piece with his hands and his mouth and his fingers. The Soldier thinks he can remember having sex before, but only vaguely, and he’s fairly certain it felt nothing like this. Some parts of it feel strange, and there’s a twinge of discomfort here and there, but Steve showers the Soldier with attention and praise during those moments, telling him how nice and sweet and  _ good _ the Soldier feels,  _ so so good, Bucky, God.  _ Before long the pain is gone and the Soldier feels like he might just combust, and then he  _ does, _ and Steve does too, collapsing on top of the Soldier with a groan.

In the aftermath they lie there, sticky and sweaty and out of breath. “That was…” the Soldier breathes dazedly, and Steve nods against the Soldier’s chest.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “It really was.” With momentous effort he drags himself back up on his elbows to look down at the Soldier and pecks a kiss to his lips. He asks nervously, “Was… was it okay? Did I do okay?”

“You were perfect, Stevie,” the Soldier reassures, cupping a hand around the back of Steve’s neck to drag him down for another kiss, this one slow and sweet. “Always are.”

Relaxed and held and surrounded by love, the Soldier can almost forget the events of the day.

( _ Almost _ .)

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑

They wake up the next morning tangled together, limbs so entwined that the Soldier barely knows where he ends and Steve begins. The Soldier watches Steve’s peaceful face until those gorgeous eyes flutter open, and Steve smiles sleepily at the Soldier for a moment before blinking and blushing beautifully, no doubt remembering the night before. The Soldier laughs and leans in to kiss him, meaning for it to be nothing more than a quick brush of lips, but before long they’re clawing off the bedclothes and falling into each other all over again.

It’s bright outside by the time they stumble out into the kitchen, pink-cheeked and giggling. The Soldier hugs Steve from behind as Steve cooks breakfast, swaying their bodies gently back and forth to the rhythm of the song crooning through the record player, feeling relaxed and satiated.

The Soldier feels as though he is as light as air itself for hours afterwards, until he switches on the TV after Steve has left for his run (with strict instructions to take it easy, punk) and catches sight of the screen, and all the weight comes crashing back down. When Steve gets home, the Soldier is sitting on the couch with his knees curled up to his chest, frowning deeply as he watches the news replay footage from yesterday's attack. Steve sighs and walks over to him, snagging the remote from the table to turn the TV off before plopping onto the couch, right next to the Soldier.

“I don’t like robots anymore,” the Soldier declares into the silence that follows.

Steve looks at the Soldier sadly and throws an arm around his shoulders, hauling the Soldier closer to him. The Soldier goes willingly and hides his face into the crook of Steve’s neck, breathing in the scent of him, trying to focus on the fact that Steve is here and whole and healed. “Aw, Buck,” he soothes, “Don’t say that. You love robots.”

“They hurt you,” the Soldier argues, scowling as the images replay in his mind.

“Lots of things have hurt me, Buck, that’s just how life works. But that doesn’t mean you gotta start hating every single thing that does.” He sighs when the Soldier just hums skeptically. “What about Rob? You love Rob; Rob would never hurt me, would he? It’s just like with humans—some of them are good, some of them are bad. That doesn’t mean you should hate them.”

“I suppose,” the Soldier admits reluctantly. Steve brushes a kiss to the top of the Soldier’s head in response.

They sit there for a few more moments, holding onto each other, until the Soldier speaks up again. “I can’t go through that again; I can’t just sit by and watch you get hurt. I’m going on the next mission with you.”

Steve pulls back a little to frown disapprovingly at him. “Buck, we’ve talked about that. I thought you said you didn’t want to fight anymore? And besides, when I mentioned it to Sam yesterday he said that he doesn’t think you’re ready to be back on the field yet.”

The Soldier purses his lips, thinking. Steve is right—even if the Soldier did want to fight, he is far from ready to. But if Steve got hurt… “I won’t go in the field,” the Soldier concedes, “But I will go with you. I’ll just stay in the Quinjet and listen to the comms, and that way I’ll only have to come out if you really need me. This isn’t something I’m going to compromise on, Steve. I’ll follow after you in a stolen plane if I have to.”

Steve rubs at his jaw, looking skeptical but not altogether averse to giving in to the Soldier’s command, likely aware that this is one fight he’s not going to win. “I can take care of myself, Buck,” he protests weakly, and the Soldier reels him in to kiss him softly.

“I know you can,” the Soldier mollifies, “But the thing is, you don’t have to.”

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑

Their plan gets put to the test nearly two months later, when a mad scientist unleashes sentient slime on the city of Columbus, Ohio. The Soldier gears up and joins the team in the Quinjet, Steve making rushed introductions before they start a debrief on the situation. It sounds like a simple mission, and it is.

The Soldier stays in the Quinjet, in the company of a quiet man named Bruce, and listens intently to the comms in his ear while discussing yoga with him. He thumbs at his ring anxiously as he waits, allowing the steady beat pulsing through it to soothe his worries. It barely takes an hour for the rest of the team to apprehend the suspect and contain the slime. Steve and the rest of the team reenter the jet looking sticky and disgusted but unscathed, and the Soldier relaxes in his seat. Steve grins at him and sits down, holding the Soldier’s hand discreetly and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

Despite the green, gooey-looking substance coating Steve’s body, the Soldier is still overcome by the urge to drag him into a kiss. He doesn’t, distinctly aware of the presence of the rest of the team, most essentially strangers to the Soldier.

So instead he waits patiently as they fly to the tower where the team debriefs again and cleans up, staying chaste and friendly right up until the moment they close the front door to the apartment. It’s only then that the Soldier spins around and drags Steve into a searing kiss, pouring his happiness into it.

“Buck,” Steve gasps, voice already breathy with want, and the Soldier smiles against his lips and hums thoughtfully.

“You deserve a reward,” he mumbles between kisses, “There’s not a single scratch on you.”

Steve nods eagerly, desperately, even as he asks, “A reward?”

“Mmhm,” the Soldier nods, not halting his attack on Steve’s mouth.

“What—ah, what kinda reward?”

The Soldier just pulls back to grin mischievously. “I seem to recall someone mentioning they wanted to switch things up and try being on the bottom…” the Soldier prompts, quirking an eyebrow. Steve’s eyes go wide and he flushes bright red. 

“Yeah! Yeah, I—if you want, that is,” Steve bumbles, and the Soldier laughs. 

“Go get on the bed, Captain,” he orders, tone faux-serious, and Steve practically trips over himself rushing to the bedroom. 

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑

A knock at the door has Steve and the Soldier jerking up from where they had been cuddling on the couch. The Soldier frowns and looks at Steve. “The buzzer didn’t buzz,” he says, and Steve nods.

They approach the door carefully, the Soldier plastering himself against the wall next to it where he’ll be able to quickly intervene if needed. Steve peaks through the peephole and sighs. “It’s just Nat,” he tells the Soldier, opening the door. Natasha quirks a brow at them.

“Expecting company?”

Steve glares at her halfheartedly. “No, in fact, we weren’t. You didn’t ring the buzzer.”

She shrugs unrepentantly and breezes past them, into the dining room. She snags a plum from the bowl on the counter and crunches into it, gazing at Steve challengingly. The Soldier can tell she is watching him from the corner of her eye as he tucks away his knives. “You should be happy I knocked at all,” she asserts.

Steve sighs again and runs a hand through his hair. “Good point. Anything I can help you with, Nat? Or is this just a social visit?”

She swings the sleek backpack she had slung over one shoulder forward to unzip it and pull something out. She’s wearing a dress that looks more like a hooded jacket, which the Soldier thinks might look comfy if it weren’t so form-fitting. That’s not what really catches his attention though. No, what he’s interested in is her hair, which is tied together so that it’s woven like a rope. He stares at it, trying to figure out how she got it like that, while she hands a manila folder over to Steve.

“These are the files on the Hydra base Barton and I just raided,” she explains. Steve opens the folder and frowns down at the documents, flipping through them.

“Not that I don’t appreciate it, but I could have just picked these up at headquarters.”

She shrugs again as she finishes off the plum, effortlessly tossing the pit into the trash can seven feet away. “I was in the neighborhood; thought I’d stop by.” She turns to the Soldier and gives him a fake smile, and it’s only then that the Soldier recognizes the tension in her shoulders. “Any particular reason you’re staring at me, Soldat? Or are you just admiring the view?”

Steve shoots her a sharp look at the nickname. Though she’s no longer hostile towards him, she is still noticeably on edge whenever the Soldier is in the same room as her. The Soldier flushes and looks away, ashamed at having made her uncomfortable.

“Your hair,” he explains haltingly. “It’s pretty.”

She blinks in surprise, and the Soldier thinks that the fact that she’s letting him read her emotions is a good sign. “Thank you,” she says cordially.

He nods and bites at the inside of his cheek. He debates asking, but eventually his curiosity wins over. “Did you do it yourself?”

“It’s just a braid,” she says. He frowns and nods like he understands, but she catches on and softens her expression. “Want me to show you how to do it?”

He perks up and looks at her hopefully, still tentative. “Yes please.”

She moves to sit on the couch and pats the spot next to her. He follows and sits where directed obediently, excited to learn what she will have to tell him. Steve clears his throat and the Soldier jolts slightly, having momentarily gotten too distracted by his thoughts about hair. Steve is smiling when the Soldier looks over at him.

“I’m gonna go look this over in my office,” he informs the Soldier, “You two have fun.” There’s a teasing gleam in his eyes that Natasha pointedly ignores. 

“This is a rope twist braid,” she starts. The Soldier watches, entranced, as she undoes it so that her hair cascades back down in waves. “You just put your hair up, then twist two sections separately, then twist them together. Add a hair tie to the end, and there you go. Simple.” She redoes the hairstyle within seconds, and it looks just as flawless as before. “Would you like to try it on yourself?”

The Soldier nods eagerly and she undoes it again, handing over her own two hair ties. She walks the Soldier through the steps and guides him when needed. It’s somewhat difficult—he can’t see what he’s doing so he has to work based off of what he can feel—but he manages. When he finishes, Natasha pulls a small mirror out of her bag and gives it to him to look into.

He can’t help but smile when he sees his reflection, feeling accomplished. It’s not quite as put together as Natasha’s had been, but he thinks he did well for a first attempt. He turns to Natasha and smiles shyly. “Thank you.”

She waves a hand dismissively. “There’s other types of braids, too, if you want me to show you them.”

She walks him through all kinds of different styles, doing them on herself first, then letting him try. The Soldier’s favorite is the one called the waterfall braid, even though they can’t really do it properly due to a lack of bobby pins. She saves the fishtail braid for last, warning the Soldier that it can be complicated. He follows her directions carefully, and when he ties it off she give him a mildly impressed look. 

“Not bad,” she says, and the Soldier beams. He moves to take out the hair tie, but she stops him before he can. “Keep it. I have more at home.” 

After she’s gone, having taken another plum with her, the Soldier dashes to the guest bedroom. “Steve!” he says excitedly, “Look at my hair.”

Steve looks up from his desk and smiles, humming in appreciation. “Looks good, Buck. Did you do it yourself?”

The Soldier nods and moves to sit sideways on Steve’s lap, causing the chair to spin slightly. Steve laughs and wraps his arms around him. “I need hair ties,” the Soldier declares. “And bobby pins. Natasha mentioned something called a scrunchie, too, but I’m not sure what that is.”

Steve grins and shakes his head before pulling him into a kiss. “I love it when you boss me around,” he sighs, and the Soldier smiles sweetly at him. 

“Good. Buy me some.”

“I’ll see what I can do, doll,” Steve promises, kissing him again.

‘What Steve can do’ ends up entailing the purchase of a fifty-piece hair styling kit, which contains more supplies than the Soldier knows what to do with. It has small elastics and stretchy hair ties and strange foam things shaped like donuts, as well as bobby pins of varying shapes and sizes. Some of them are even in a spiral shape, but the Soldier isn’t sure what they’re for.

He experiments with different styles, practicing in front of the mirror in the bathroom. Sometimes Steve leans against the doorway and watches with a smile, a nostalgic expression on his face. Steve inevitably ends up messing all of the Soldier’s hard work up at some point in the day when he runs his fingers through it, but the Soldier doesn’t mind as much as he pretends to. 

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑

The Soldier gazes out the window, watching water streak across the pane to the pattering sound of rain drops falling. He tips his head forward to rest it gently against the cool glass and tries to get his thoughts in order.

He doesn’t startle when Steve’s arms suddenly wrap around him from behind, having heard his footsteps approaching, but he does smile softly as a soft kiss is pressed to his hair.

“What’s up, Buck?” Steve murmurs, tucking his chin into the crook of the Soldier’s neck. The Soldier shakes his head lightly and moves his hands to rest over Steve’s where they’re clasped together on the Soldier’s belly. 

“Just thinking.”

Steve hums, and the Soldier can feel the vibrations from his chest against his back. “That’s never good,” Steve teases, and the Soldier huffs.

“Shut up, punk,” he retorts, spinning in Steve’s arms to face him. Steve smiles dopily and drops a kiss to the Soldier’s nose, laughing as it scrunches up in response.

“What are you thinking about?”

The Soldier purses his lips and sobers a bit. “It’s just,” he starts haltingly, “Soldiers are in wars. And I’m not at war anymore; I’m at home. So…” he takes a deep breath. “Do you think…?”

Steve tucks a strand of hair behind the Soldier’s ear and nods encouragingly. “Go on, it’s alright. Do I think what?”

“Do you think I could just be a person now?”

The words come out in a rush, the Soldier unreasonably nervous. Steve smiles sadly at him and tightens his grip on the Soldier’s waist. “You’re already a person, Buck. Always have been.”

The Soldier looks down and nods slowly. “I need a name…” he mumbles, and Steve tips the Soldier’s chin up gently with his hand.

“‘Bucky’ has a nice ring to it,” he suggests, and the Soldier shakes his head.

“I can’t… I don’t wanna take his name,” he says resolutely, and Steve nods understandingly. “But maybe… maybe I can be James? You can still call me Bucky, though.”

“You sure? I don’t mind. I can call you whatever you want, doll.” Steve accompanies the words with yet another kiss, this time to the Soldier’s forehead, and the Soldier smiles at how affectionate Steve is.

“I’m sure. I like it when you call me that.” He pauses, frowns. “But only you. No one else.”

“Sounds good, Buck,” Steve says, “I officially dub thee ‘James’.”

James rolls his eyes and smiles. “How’d I end up with such a dork?” he mutters, and Steve pokes him in the ribs. James barely suppresses a squeal and glares. He had enacted a firm ‘no tickling’ rule months ago, but Steve is not one known for following rules, and often breaks it.

“Hey! You’re one to talk, Mr. Sci-Fi Guy,” Steve objects, and James shakes his head vehemently.

“Sci- fi is cool,” he declares, “You are not.”

“I’ll show you cool,” Steve grumbles, pressing James up against the wall.

“That doesn’t even make sense! You—mmph—” His words are cut off by Steve’s lips smushing into his own. “You’re a punk,” he scolds when Steve pulls away.

Steve hums in agreement, not even trying to deny it. “I’m your punk,” he promises, and James grins.

Maybe, James thinks as his hands thread through Steve’s hair, someday he’ll do something to deserve all of this. Probably not, the voice in the back of his head niggles, but James shakes it away. He’s working on it, on accepting where he is now. Because deserving or not, he’s going to hold on to what he has, and he’s damn well never going to let go of it.  _ Screw till the end of the line,  _ he thinks with a smile, _ I’m with this punk till the end of forever. _

⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for reading! I'm considering writing a prequel to this, so stay tuned if you're interested. My tumblr is [levicastho](https://levicastho.tumblr.com/), feel free to come say hi!


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